I feel it more evidently now than ever before, there is a frosty wind on the air. Despite knowing that there is a warm bed and an unlimited dining plan awaiting me throughout the winter I cannot help but feel the urgency in the changing of the seasons. The same urgency that an observer might feel in a late fall afternoon when the sun starts to dip and they grow inexplicably uneasy.  There was little activity at my site on my afternoon venture. No visitors came to see me, though a kit-kat wrapper told me that hadn’t always been the case. In fact, some ducks could be seen fleeing my obnoxious and noisy approach. Perhaps a loud, pink, bicycle is not the most tactful tool for observing a site.

Now, a poem:

My roots grow deep

In the ground,

The frost begins to creep

All around

 

I paddle back

The pond is cold

I hope to quack

Until I’m old

 

Winter is deadly

Branches and mammals both tremble

So we wrote this medley

In the hope that our mood it would resemble

 

Winter is Near.

Winter we Fear.