Today, in the stillness between bare branches, I found the brown hare, still, quiet, taken by the season.
A shape once swift, now resting in the cold embrace of Winter-Mōor. The Saxons saw winter not just as a time of cold, but as a presence, Winter-Mōor, the Winter-Mother, moving across the land with an unrelenting but necessary hand. She takes, but she also weaves, folding life back into the earth's wyrd.
The hare has long been a creature of thresholds, slipping between worlds, running in the half-light. Now it rests beneath her cloak, woven into the deep and turning wyrd of the land.
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