Just like a few months ago the only thing I could write about was the snow, now the wind in invading everything. Trees bend to the point where it appears impossible for them not to break. The top layer of snow whips itself into a frigid, sandstorm, and the mountians refuse to offer us a moment of silence. The insessent howling, the world around us constantly in flux, not in some philosophical or metaphorical sense, but actually and physically in flux. The snow melting, sandstorms beating against the stone of our house, pieces of my world which have been hidden away for months are suddenly emerging. This however does not feel like spring. These pieces that I'm seeing for the first time in months are made from concrete and stone, they are bare and broken tree limbs which have beeen buried for months on end. They do not resemble rebirth. They are gray and broken, they are dead and disfigured, or made of a substance that has no life cycle. They are things that are bruta e morte and are just now coming to light. There is a rebirth of death and maybe this is what the mountains and myself need to flush out of our systems before we can hope to bring anything into a new existance. The dead needs to be exposed, fall away, and become the mulch, the compost, the nutrients, of the things to come. And only in letting it melt away into the Earth can the ugly furnish the beauty that all of us are waiting for.