the wintry trees rattle in the wind as if shaking a coffin, gently, as to not disrespect the dead, but with enough force to hear the hollow clatter of ageing bones. i hate this season - it is bleak and futile. it makes me feel empty. i begin to dig and burrow into the ground. sodden yet crisp. i lay still. the dirt hugs me like my favourite blanket. will the worms eat me? no, they would not do such a thing, i am a guest in their home, wouldn't it be rude? though, i think i am beginning to overstay my welcome. only now i realise it is too cold for me here.