Stone Circle foxtails

it was habit to rise with the dawn and contemplate where next he would go, taking in the sounds of songbirds as they heralded a new day, but today the sounds were discordant and the color of the sky closer to slate than seawater; the trees around him were unfamiliar, and at times he thought they were more like pillars, and he could not tell the forest floor apart from their canopies.
there was a haze to everything.
a light snow dusted the forest and found its way like motes of dust between them. saturio thought, are you sure this is snow? what of the ashes of avenarius?
he departed the forest with a lethargic hang to his body, a dragging of his heels. what liminal space was this? a field bled of color. stone obelisks jutting from the horizon line like crooked teeth. he did not want to look at them. there was the scent of wolves too, and so he lingered safely back and stood there in this odd space, unsure of himself or the world.