As the storm comes in, winter borne, the island house gets colder and colder, sifting the iced winds from the north, roaring over the hills, the forest, back to the southern sea.

Fire might be the only way to get warm. While I’m drawing, I put my hands into the fire to get the heat back into them.

This morning, it was bitterly cold again, yet there’s no snow. Winds still rip. But being in the city, I’m warmer.

t | old queen anne hill