Walking the woods with my faithful wolves,
their breath quiet, our pace unhurried,
we move as shadows beneath a darkening sky.

A gentle fall begins —
soft flakes blanket my shoulders
and dance in their fur,
burying leaves, bushes, trees,
turning the world into a hush of silver-white.

Entranced by the beauty, time freezes in my throat,
mesmerized by light sparkling across the powdered path,
unaware that I am becoming unrecognizable—
edges softened, shape blurred,
a figure slowly absorbed into the winterland.

My wolves pull on and shake the spell,
and we walk on.
Through the thicket, through the hush,
to the clearing where snow melts as it lands,
where sunlight filters back in.

Here, the air is no longer crisp or bitter to the taste,
It is lighter. Easier.
No longer caught in my throat.

I turn for one last look at the beauty I am leaving behind.
And I see.

Not snow, but ash.
Not from a raging inferno,
nor from a careless match
but fallout from a silent volcano erupting with every soft step —
pressure released through quiet chaos,
the old world smothered by cruel beauty,
new pathways forming where shadows remain.