My psaltry’s bow rubbed the chunk of resin to a nub, which catches light like amber, preferred jewel of sorcerers.
The ticking of the clock grows soggy. Santa tries to commandeer his sleigh through mud, his belly sagging like jelly uncongealing. The reindeer are in a foul state, their cheap tennis shoes soaked and shredded. (So much for their demands for decent footwear.) “Eight swans a’swimming. Seven lords a’leaping”. Rudolph feebly attempts a tune. An owl responds in a harrowing screech, ricocheting unpleasantly off their antlers.
I take my bow in hand, determined to do what is needed; gliding back and forth, back and forth. No catch. No unevenness of tone. The resin has done it’s job.
Thirty days later I stop. Sun sparkles on virgin snow. Christmas, I understand, came and went. No ghastly headlines to report. The air feels exuberantly clean. I am famished.