It was born in a shower of silver and blue, cold as chilled champagne and warm as a crowd of faces flushed with anticipation.
Its first steps sounded with the crunch of newly fallen snow, with the hollow, desolate whisper of winter wind through prairie grass, brittle wrappings on a dead landscape.
It learned to speak with the tones of awakening: babbling with brooks freed from shrouds of ice, It provided a mellow alto harmony to the sweet soprano of returning birds.
By summer, It had grown expansive. Its ceased to rush, took to meandering, developed a tendency to linger. It sweetened and ripened and swelled.
Its shadows grew longer, and crackled underfoot like husks of corn. It smelled of woodsmoke and ancient ambergris, and its breath was tinged with homecoming, simultaneously inviting and a little too familiar.
It stretched itself thin, and the days no longer went around but through It. It saw through technicolor eyes, red and green, vivid against the flatness of surrounding grey. It tasted fullness, and filled itself with nothing. It found completion, and then began again.
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