We're growing in numbers.

Young sickle fledgling look at how you stumbled from the womb on two legs made of yarn.

Warmth radiated -not only from the flickering candle upon the wooden table that we gathered around, but also from our tongues as we shared our memories of home. We threw our heads back and howled at the moon with passion lulling beneath our tongues and strength in our lungs. The cold crept through small cracks within the frame of the dirty windows, with gusto, threatening to stifle the flame. But we burn. Burn. Burn on.