It could be I’m in hibernation. Maybe I’m a toad, buried deep in the mud at the bottom of the river, insides turned to antifreeze, waiting out the winter. My eyes are closed and my body is cold, and I’m just trusting the mud to hold me here till it’s time. I don’t understand everything that’s going on above me, beyond the layers of silt and the sluggish waters and crust of ice. But the river is still life. Even now, when all awareness has drained from my synapses, there is life flowing over me, singing the song of my winter lullaby. It flows and carries me in the season of silence. Now I am but a hidden lump of clay. All I can do is wait, and trust the stilling of my soul in the hollow of the river’s hand.