“Time will tell just who has fell and who’s been left behind, when you go your way and I go mine,” – Bob Dylan

There’s been a shift that I’ve noticed, a tilting of an axis somewhere that has slid the chessboard toward the edge of the table. The switch was borne of a fever dream of sorts, with the temperatures and humidities climbing to readings uncommon for these Great North Woods. Then, in a matter of hours, like a darkness falling over the landscape, the change occurred. It was as though someone at the far end of the house pushed a big creaking door open and cold air, desperation and longing slipped in.

Like a bag full of hungry snakes dumped on the floor of an old barn, the cold air spread quickly to every corner of everything, seeking out any remaining warmth to immediately consume i

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