The Dogs were fed.

And the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe.

Robert service by an early morning fire

Like some sort of modern prospector

Chipping away the stone of truth

In a world gone mad with algorithm and bad news.

Trying to leave the wriggling worm of click bait for some other poor fool to spear onto his hook. I’ve grown tired of this stream.

I walk on, into the overgrown prickled woods of the past, not out of nostalgia but in hopes of uncovering clues to weather this future.

And I don’t despair this new world, at least not much.

You see, like Service, I too have been north. Not to many times, but enough. Enough to feel the fear and crisp beginnings of forty below.

Enough to escape the towers for a few days and glimpse into the old ways of existence.

The cast iron soul of what it means to be a human being not guided by the hand of the technocrati.

Did Robert service mine the past to make sense of the future? I can’t say for sure.

And my intentions are likely futile, at least if I’m panning for an answer.

But for now, the coffee and the poetry gives me a little peace in a winters morning.

And I hope the same for you.