Homecoming
On a night where the moon silvers the falling snow and the air is the gaping mouth of a frozen corpse, the skeleton pig lowers its head to the river flowing upstream and drinks while dreaming of spring. Trees like pale fingers strain towards the skies and line both sides of the river—the skeleton pig has never strayed into the woods for fear of losing its way, but it is tempted to venture beyond this eternal walk along the frigid water. It remembers little other than this journey, this cold.