It is everything and nothing but the in-between.
A hard road meeting up with the horizon.
It is the yuletide.
A cathartic Sunday service.
It is the year of living with and, without, friends.
With one trail closing in on another.
It is the woody scent of a seasoned forest.
The manner in which the pine cones descend.
It is the constant hopes for ‘glad tidings.’
It is the year of living with and, without friends.