smiling on air on the tip of a bluebell as she pokes up through the dirt as somewhere in the northern lands the music strikes up and the dancing begins . . . all year with no one to talk to but musk ox but not today . . . the daughter of the man with the biggest house in the district in her bridal furs riding into the hall on a polar bear with her groom beside her on his musk ox . . . feasting and feet one hopes are nimble . . . better find a lady now or else there will be no one to dance with . . .
I’ve never lived in the Northern Lands but my sister lived in Alaska for around ten years and had a friend who managed a musk ox farm.
my winter post for today published to my Substack at the link.