Hidden away in a farm house in the middle of no where.

Where no thing happens but frost on moss and sun rises and sun sets and little girl games and twinkling rushes.

Isn’t it lucky and grand to be here and hiding.

When the vibe beyond the hilly, cold wilderness is telling us to beware.

Is there a fear monger akin to Jack Frost, sprinkling the towns and airwaves with anxious news of mutant strains.

This is real. This is happening. Again

Fear is all around this boggy northland.

The world is changed.

Jack Frost comes still.

The sun still rises and sets and rushes still blow.

The harsh winds of the bog still play chess with the ancient, ragged trees against the backdrop of a whole new world.