In the depths of winter, the village seemed suspended in time, each dwelling encased in a shroud of frost. It was here, amidst the silent sentinels of bare trees, that I found myself wandering, lost in thought. The lake, once teeming with splashes of summer lay still, a mirror reflecting the slate sky above. As I walked, my breath formed clouds in the air, each a cursory testament to life in the midst of this dormant world. I thought of the stories I had heard, tales of warriors who had gone before us, leaving only fading memories and fire-side lore in their wake. It struck me then, with a clarity as sharp as the winter air, how all of the names swallowed up by the cold were not gone, but woven into our fabric, lingering in the silence between snowflakes under a watchful moon.
Written in response to Björn Rudberg’s wonderful prosery prompt at dVerse Poet’s Pub: Write a piece of prose of exactly 144 words that includes the given line, “all of the names swallowed up by the cold” from Tomas Tranströmer’s beautiful poem, “After Someone’s Death.”
The Truth About Tigers 
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