When the cold wind blows across the plains in winter, it brings partial thoughts, broken, crusty ones. The thoughts toss like infinitesimal tumbleweeds across barren gray dirt and dead tan grass, bouncing high in the wind, drifting past chilly thoughtways covered with snow and narrow canyons of stone time, past frozen streams, skipping, rolling, tumbling across the cold dark plains. The landscape howls with barren cold and thoughts tumble, tumble, tumble away down the long dark day and into the foothills of your mind.

Brrrr,

LWIII