I found this in a pile of my old journals:

It was the days of long dark and deep cold just before the first snow. We walked among thin charcoal lines of trees against nearly-dead-ember clouds, with the year’s shed former self blowing in hissing plumes like flocks of paper sparrows. We wandered the knotted and root-bumped road twisting past the fluorescent face of the old church, the monolithic farmhouse looming in its wide field and the tilting stone teeth of the two oldest cemeteries in town.  We talked until we could feel the gravity of other worlds pulling us up from this one and savored that momentary elevation, but were disappointed to find that the trip lead to the same gray doorstep in the end.

Those were the days…