from_the_banks_of_the_yarra fyn gula an early spring snow fell during the quarter moon night, blanketing the ragged grass with yet another white cover. emerging tulips shivered with frustration. tightly wrapped daffodils shook with disgust, but the crocus laughed. inside the chilly farm house, he wrestled with sleep, beleaugered by angry dreams, bees that stung his soul. he woke with relief to track six of massive attack's mezzanine, his breath nearly visible. cold toes on colder wooden floors, creaky steps, waking some cats, others stretching in the hallway, to stoke the dying embers and ressurect the warmth. in his remembrance was the hope that today would be the day he was longing for. that even if the sun was hidden behind swollen grey clouds, light could yet break forth. if only the girl with the beautiful name from the banks of the yarra river had written. as if dropped from the talons of a sturdy winged owl, her gift lay somewhere between the dusting of snow and his heart's longing, it's brightly coloured expressions urging him to open. as if her intricately crafted words were actually a door and painted upon it with bold, deft strokes were little silver fish. he stood there and saw the latch was already open, and as he took those first, fragile steps inside, he found it is a brand new world. God, is it beautiful. he remained as long as he could and he had been there all day. thoughts forming under his skin like paper, written with memory. images appearing like photographs no camera could capture. songs of celebration that he knew by heart. and when the owl flew down upon his outstretched arm, he fed it the reading of her indelible words, as he had done for himself several times, for they were sweet like honey and nourishing as milk. "rest," he whispered. "for soon you have a long journey and your package will be heavy." 010402 what's it to you? who go blather from