For a fatherless son.

You will be aware of an absence, presently,

growing beside you like a tree,



The girl would sit beneath the shadows of the redwood as if she were herself a part of that dark expanse. Only her eyes would betray her. Dim cerulean in all that black. The north was cold. The north was darker. Yet livelier than the mangroves for the residents of such firm lands bred firm inhabitants. The residents of Ludicael were soft. These were her birth lands and her heart was a wild as they were. A stream of white fume unraveled slowly from her jowls; the slow, consistent breath of a meditative state. There was much to contemplate as a child. In the absence of parent and sibling the girl's quick mind was her constant companion.



A death tree, color gone, an Australian gum tree ---

Balding, gelded by lightning--an illusion,



Before her snow fell in a broken fashion between the knotted canopy above. The bare branches pointed painfully skyward like black, arthritic digits. It was, perhaps, sunset considering the angle of light that peered through the thick clouds that darkened the sky. Circe often lost track of time. She was young but she was capable and it mattered little at which hour she chose to pursue her explorations. Snow began to settle upon the girl, outlining her small body which had otherwise blended with the redwood trunk she leaned upon.