Scanning water, trudging through mud, a chilly mist, a flock of geese. Who am I but ash and sodden dreams? Wings on the pond, waving above. In the dust of memories kicked up, the path wavers, as the goal fades. "dampness much." Will it rain again this winter? Will it snow? Suns shine in the eyes, in heartbeats and memory's tombs still there. He returned. skin paler, lyre missing a major chord, snapped in the gloom as he trod back into the grizzled light.