February skies my hearth, wind whispers my name transparent, knowledgable of its nature.

I was raised in this winter quadrant, the Sun to the horizon, and they said it’s in detriment but I’m not bothered. My name runs through and is lost, but will find other hearths on its unpredictable voyage.

Because I randomize, that is my fort, gusts out of synch. But today the Sun has snuggled up to Saturn, and I must see reality, fine as this day’s sky.

He hints from his warm abode. An answer is born and is sure to last. I don’t have to push for it, mix it with others, or put make up on it. Reality just runs itself out like my gusts always do.

Skies sing, they are  taking to finer yet more potent winds. My hearth will never again be what it used to, it is almost ashen. But I see futures reflected when I stand by the river, the one that runs through all fields around.  

It goes on forever, doesn’t depend on me. I should only observe, listen, standing right here, on the the rocky bank.

I close my eyes. A new gush comes, electricity in my head. The river builds up thunder, currents unstoppable, as native February must.