Twisted Slough cold forgiveness of dawn

Set on November 17.

Crystals fell from the sky, lightly blanketing all-creation. Winds savage and biting howled across the land, ravaging the exposed bits. The only exception seems to be this swamp with its array of trees and grasses. Natjuk could barely move about without tripping over a root or something equally ridiculous. At least he is protected from each gale that rattles the trees.

He slept well that night, housed within the rootstocks of an aged willow. There is no sun to wake him. Fog infiltrates the fortress of a bog, limiting his vision. Great. He knows there is open sea to the north and sierras to the east. He knows where he wants to go but will not be progressing through this confusing veil. All he can do is wait it out, hoping it will evanesce as the day proceeds. He paces with a somber gait, aimless in his venture.