And telling a story, I suppose, is like winding a skein of spun yarn- you sometimes lose track of the beginning.

That's the trouble with loving a wild thing: You're always left watching the door.

A pine needle fell in the forest. The hawk saw it. The deer heard it. The white bear smelled it

East of the sun and west of the moon.

And telling a story, I suppose, is like winding a skein of spun yarn- you sometimes lose track of the beginning.

It is odd, the twists that life will sometimes take. The ewe that you think will give birth with ease dies bringing forth a two-headed lamb. Or the ski trail that you have been told is treacherous, you navigate easily.

It was the difference between walking with a stranger and walking with your heartmate. It was the difference between working for duty and working for love.