Reminders of The Desolate Valleys

Gripped in the icy hold of winter. The reminder of our pitiful weakness is evident in the wind blowing freezing wet possible death at us. Burrow in and hide. The storm will pass. The cycle of power exerts its control. Presenting itself even in our hovels stacked high above the concrete or in our shacks spread like a stain across the once verdant vistas. It is a threat. Not subtle at all. A display of ferocious power. No longer a victim. Now a victor. A declaration saying self important nothings hide in holes. Scared creatures. The wilderness of winter accepts no excuses.