quiet seasons

a clock the rest of the family reads, never a HUD. the year runs at fourteen days a season, and the world says which one it is the way a world should: the foliage drifts — spring's bright green deepening into summer, browning into autumn, greying toward winter — with the snow line and the breathing day still to come as the mod grows into its remaining phases.

everything else on this shelf leans on it the moment it is present: the orchard's calendar wants to snap to the year, the fireflies want to know it is summer, the star wheel wants to know how far the sky has turned, the husky's coat wants to thicken. none of them require it. all of them are better for it. that is the house pattern, and seasons is its quietest, most load-bearing member.