From deep within the weald, there is a longing to sit with, to learn from.
Go fly to the mountain, raven, sit on the stone-filled heath. Become the fells, be come the high places. Better yet: sink down into the underwood deadfall and loam, wrap roots around and tangle hair with moss, lichen the bone. Grow antlers. Become the stone. Who needs these wings?
They come. They receive. They go.
Grow to flint, knapped and worn. Become the old trunk they come sit with and exchange, clear off scalloped white fungus as they while away until there is nothing more. They take that away too, and cast away when bored. But that is the way.
When you are not looking, comes the wolf. Not just a wolf. The winter wolf.
And being stone will then be the whiling away while the longing melts of winter.
