Hibernating, reflecting, resting.

Something to consider over Christmas.

A song thrush calls at the dawn’s amber glow on the horizon. The fox, prowling all night, returns to its den. The night shift lasts longer, the day shift is quieter. The city wakes slowly as the year grows old.

It is grey and wet outside, and my duvet holds me in its embrace longer every morning. My work is winding down for Christmas, I’m wrapping up bot…