Two seasons pass in our world. The longest day starts the unraveling of all we have done. The stores groan with the harvest. Bellies are full and chores forgotten. Nature draws within itself, dropping all concerns but endurance. With the cold, we retreat to our dens for long conversations leavened with thick mead. The longest night is the end of our sloth. With each lengthening day, we weave new order and push the pegs back in line, as the poet sang. Life organizes out of nothing, surging towards the light and the longest day. The cycle is renewed, as we imagine it always was and always will be. mjh