Sycamore trees bent from the Northern press, whilst the lonely river freezes on the winding portion and white caps in the middle, our souls bent in the middle seeing the dawn of living tomorrow, feeling an end of our lives. Yet, the wind, nor the stream, nor the trees are concerned with an end, just with surviving and thriving. Fear not a dying, as that is a natural thing. Fear the winding portion and white cap in the middle, whilst you fear you must give in, and yet, you must not. You will see the winding portion thaw and flow freely, this you survive. Live freely, like the wind. Die in earnest and honor when it is your time. Live, no fear, just life, like wind scrabbling over the hills and rocks, singing to the Sycamore trees. Live, thrive and survive, till your time is spent, like the final Sycamore leaf, from the final Northerner, like the time just before a thaw. Live, till there is no fear, no dread, no more.