Little Star

I was walking in the long, cold night, quaking from the soles of my feet to the center of my frenzied heart. It was dark and quiet and I was alone. There was the wailing of the fox and the shuffling of hooves or paws or claws under shadowed trees. The force of the wind tore through my jacket and pushed me sideways, the snow hammering my closed lids.

I was walking in the long, cold night, tears trickling into icicles on raw skin. My ears ached, though my headphones remained for the company of the mournful cello and haunting choir of voices.

I was walking in the long, cold night and the blue spruce and bare aspens wept for the friends who had gone (theirs and mine), for the promise at every birth of grief, and because they could feel in my step that familiar burden and could only wonder why, why, why?

I was walking in the long, cold night when the clouds parted and the wind halted and the world held its breath. The rustling under the trees ceased and the trees, too, paused their curious murmuring. Piercing through a night that would not end and a grief that robbed me of breath, appeared the little star.

I was walking in the long, cold night and a little star broke the darkness, casting the snowy trail in miraculous light straight toward the door of the cabin and the roaring fire which promised to keep me through the night.