The snow is white as the surf of the sea;
there are star-shaped patches of river-pebble
for stepping stones in a stretch of yard with
shyly budding, winter flowers. Stay far enough
from the Keep's bright wall, and hope to
maintain the sky's sunny favour. Stained
windows throw myriad, coloured lights
over the hedges.
Before going outside, take the one hint
that a painfully cold, bedroom floor can
provide, by dressing in the following:
a coat reinforced with hide, a hat that
rejects ear and face-seeking winds,
the ugly gloves that someone sent for
Midwinter, and the thickest boots ever
conceived. This makes the walk
a little more bearable.
Just when you find yourself drowning
in the endless sea of your work,
the currents of instruction send
your exhausted body shivering into
the cold snowsurf -- washing you
all the way up to the high-framed
entrance to the Stables.
A tall cocoon of coat and hat stands
in the broad, sunlit doorframe: hidden
eyes, a hawk's nose, a straight
mouth. There is a warmth here,
a warmth that is specific to
a stable, a foreign warmth
for Yuriel.
Horses stamp their hooves in contentment,
and he, far more inclined to the
misanthropy of the deep indoors,
spends a few moments silently
absorbing the feeling of this
place.
there are star-shaped patches of river-pebble
for stepping stones in a stretch of yard with
shyly budding, winter flowers. Stay far enough
from the Keep's bright wall, and hope to
maintain the sky's sunny favour. Stained
windows throw myriad, coloured lights
over the hedges.
Before going outside, take the one hint
that a painfully cold, bedroom floor can
provide, by dressing in the following:
a coat reinforced with hide, a hat that
rejects ear and face-seeking winds,
the ugly gloves that someone sent for
Midwinter, and the thickest boots ever
conceived. This makes the walk
a little more bearable.
Just when you find yourself drowning
in the endless sea of your work,
the currents of instruction send
your exhausted body shivering into
the cold snowsurf -- washing you
all the way up to the high-framed
entrance to the Stables.
A tall cocoon of coat and hat stands
in the broad, sunlit doorframe: hidden
eyes, a hawk's nose, a straight
mouth. There is a warmth here,
a warmth that is specific to
a stable, a foreign warmth
for Yuriel.
Horses stamp their hooves in contentment,
and he, far more inclined to the
misanthropy of the deep indoors,
spends a few moments silently
absorbing the feeling of this
place.
