In the village, they dreaded the winter. Harsh, biting winds seeped into their joints. Only at the end of the night could they find respite from the cold, using their body’s heat to survive. And then there was summer: sun-gilded trees, grass that yielded to their feet, rich natural expanses with leaves that kissed and cooled their crowns.
And always during those summer months, a villager would ask, “when would winter come?”
But one villager preferred the clouds. He basked when the skies showed ash and breathed deep when the air felt like shards on his lungs. Asked by few, he would reply and say, “because the clouds remind me how good the sun feels.”
