The Sons of Aeolus march on our lands, claiming it, dancing, twisting, given visible shape by the freshly fallen powder of snow they churn and stir; Notos and Zephyrus taking the lead. They rejoice in their freedom, the storm having driven all creatures inside. The streets are quiet save for their joyous exhalations, empty save for the glittering, ethereal dancers.
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It's exceedingly windy out there after yesterday's major snowstorm. Figured I'd post my musings and jot a note as a reminder to myself of the circumstances which gave rise to it.
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