Holly branches are blowing. They sound out like soft bells chiming amidst a fresh wind. Their small winter berries are plucked gently in the beak of red bellied robins. Fields of diamonds dissolve in the calm morning. Overcoats and duffles and wraps and trenches, woolen arms and fleecey linings are crowded in the stairwells, on the banisters, within the closets or take to the shoulders of every chair at every table. Winter drifted in, as always, crisp and earlier than anyone expected or cares to wake. The scent of cinnamon weaves a path from up to down.

Pale blues turn to forest greens and not before long depths of red to shades of violet rouge. Later on the embers from the fire arrange like snowflakes upon the heath, glowing white and gold and silver and then white all over again. The old heat pipes are pulling and twisting the weight of infinity. Both inhaling and exhaling as one under the oak in the halls. Outside the earth is suspended frozen under a million cold glazed stars. All is calm all is bright. Quite suddenly the brush strokes of morning soothe twighlight back to day break and the canvas begins to uncover upon the horizon once more and everyone is counting, always counting.