Winter Hibernation

Waiting for the Christmas markets to flood the cooling streets of the region's capital--place du capitol--with the cheer of warm wine and sparkling tinsel, I hold-up in my tiny fortress in the rolling hills of le Gers. The biting wind rushing off the Pyrenees has followed me from the Atlantic coast, to Toulouse, the Mediterranean coast, and back to my coin, next to the abattoirs.

This wind has followed me since my first arrival here almost two Januaries ago. It's a wind that pushes you out, towards the sea. In the spring, it brings lightening storms and the scent of fresh earth up to the top floors of swaying apartment buildings. In December these winds numb my uncovered fingers, nipping every bit of exposed skin I neglect to shelter. It makes me tired; I lay in bed all day, listening to the breezes slamming my French shutters against the cold stone walls that keep me in. It is during these times that one has the occasion to reflect and catch up--something I often neglect to do. This is me trying to catch something up of myself, making the most of this time when I can rest, living a somewhat simple life.

Four days and I'll be off again. I wonder sometimes if I should be here.