Winter Solstice in Central Washington

The longest night settles over the basin

like a coyote’s breath -

sharp, watchful, alive.

Sagebrush rattles its bones in the dark,

each stem whispering stay, stay,

as the wind combs the land raw.

The ground is a hard book of frost,

pages cracked open under boots.

The Columbia moves slow and steel-dark,

a held breath under ice-rimmed banks,

remembering mountains it once tore through

with fire in its mouth.

Stars spill low and reckless here,

no city glow to soften them -

they press against your eyes,

cold coins on bare skin,

until you feel small in the best possible way,

like the land is finally telling you the truth.

The cold climbs your legs,

sets up residence in your knees,

but somewhere a porch light burns amber,

a lone window stitched into the dark.

Inside: wool, woodsmoke,

hands cupped around a mug

that steams like a prayer.

This night does not coddle.

It teaches closeness.

It says: gather what matters,

pull it near your ribs,

let the rest of the world howl itself tired.

Out on the flats, the wind spends itself,

flinging dust and ice like curses,

until even it must rest.

The land listens.

The sky waits.

And beneath it all,

deep in the frozen loam,

light is already turning -

quiet as a seed,

patient as basalt,

certain as the river’s return.

So lean into the cold.

Let the night wrap you tight.

This is the solstice -

where the dark reaches its limit

and the earth, without ceremony,

begins to forgive the light back home.