The Season of Belial

Everything burns in January. It’s not only furnace flames that lap at the dried timber and kindling, but the way the icicles pop and snap from their rooftop perches when the shattering cold mercilessly bullies even them. It’s the way the forest sings in creaks and sighs, and the way its pine needles bristle against one another, as if the trees whisper dark secrets to one another about an unstoppable impending doom. Animals gently leave their mark in white beneath the glassy branches, suffering the oppressive gnaw of chill upon their noses, ears, and other sacrificed tips, all under the pale torch of a moonlit sky. This is the season of Belial.