The snow in the apple branches resembles those stylized rays of electricity in old cartoons. Brilliant sun after three days of storm. I find I’m awash in mythologies. Haephestus, Old Vainamoinen, Minerva. Every larger than life figure must devour at least a small piece of death. In America there’s a pill for this. I know because I’ve taken it.
Though the day is overtly forgiving I still sense the Baba Yaga approaching my snowed in house.
Planet of the Blind 