We are having an odd winter this year. A lot of cold wind (with a few days of warmer winds) and overall generally cold temps randomly broken up. We have had snow….and then the snow melted away. And somewhere, lord Apollon, leader of the seasons in their dance is laughing. Yet on days when I feel the bite of the wind like the prick of fangs on my skin, or even days when warm winds billow in strong gusts that rip the very breath from my lungs, I am mindful and heeding of my lord, the wolfish one, the howling wind which tears asunder, the wolflight that teases the senses before the dawn even as the aurora borealis may on some nights deign to appear and serpentine waver in the heavens in its long brilliant coils. Even as every shard of snow and ice glint and shine with white brilliance under the light of the day. He is obscure at the edge of vision, decked in furs and winter wear, a shadow of a face beneath the hood as his eyes burn from within. His staff hangs with the charms of time: life, growth and death. Maybe he has at his side a hunters horn rather than the shepherds flute, summoning forth the fury of the elements as the wolves rally forth from beneath the hem of his great coat. Yet he carries too a shard of light like a prismatic crystal, that when his mood is light he may pull from the recesses of his great coat and let shine and cast its chilly beauty and soft rays. He is the Hyperborean one, the far one, the son of Leto, the hidden Lady. He is as eternal and shifting as the elements, yet every youthful and ever fair, apart from the roll of time, even as his appearance may change as he dwells among the halls of men or in the wild country of the far place beyond the Northern Wind. He is yet the summoner of life, and by his call with the return of spring, he returns again all life. Yet he brings the season of death for all living things which have grown ripe for it. There he is by necessity impartial and wild. A remote mage or hermit in the mountains. He is the weaver of the dance, the danger and singer…..we are helpless at understanding the rhythm in its complexity of the passage of seasons and time. So I marvel in awe, especially when the seasons whirl in a tilted odd dance. Global warming and its devastation have become woven in a way that we have yet to comprehend as we influence the pattern just as all life influences the pattern of the dance. He plays for us what we have wrought, for unchanging endless time plays on and the seasons flow. The spell of winter is his, the dance is his.