The wind came from the west, carrying with it the ghost of winter—damp, cold, full of the smell of leaf rot and something older, something that lingers in the hedgerows before the blackthorn blooms. I stood at the edge of the field, bow in hand, and watched the sky shift between defiance and surrender. It…
Views: 10
Enjoyed this article? Read the full piece and our ever-growing archive by taking an online membership. Members receive 10% off at the TIFAM Newsagent and sustain a community magazine that runs as a non-profit, carried by dedicated volunteers. Your support keeps the work alive. —
take your membership here.
