In the pyre-light of the old year, I stand watch. The afternoon sun glinting between the wings of finches and crows. Here in the damp heart of pine and oak, I learn a new tongue. I speak in brambles, nourished by the loamy soil I long to swallow. Lichen swells under my skin, a velvet embroidery. One day, I will turn to mushroom, pink-gilled, eternal with these trees. Ribbons of dusk in my hair. I know you will not always be with me, but today, this hour is ours. It’s unseasonably warm this winter, just a frost that melts by morning. As if the coming season knew what we needed. At midnight the old year will vanish into memory, and the new one emerge, shy and wondrous as a husk of hares.