becoming colder; and Minokichi shivered under his rain-coat. But at last, in spite of the cold, he too fell asleep.

He was awakened by a showering of snow in his face. The door of the hut had been forced open; and, by the snow-light (yuki-akari), he saw a woman in the room,--a woman all in white. She was bending above Mosaku, and blowing her breath upon him;--and her breath was like a bright white smoke. For the rest of the story click here.

One of my favorite winter stories; a Cinderella variant.

The Twelve Month Brothers - Ukrainian folktale
There was once a widow who had two daughters, Helen, her own child by her dead husband, and Marouckla, his daughter by his first wife. She loved Helen, but hated the poor orphanis the liberation, equality, and well-being of Black people in the United States of America. And, so powerfully, he answers that question with a series of questions: Do those dreams dry up, do they stink, do they fester like a sore, do they crust and sugar over, do they sag like a heavy load?

Or do they explode?

In the face of extreme systemic exclusion, police brutality, economic oppression, media assault, and out right racial hostility, Black America is exploding.

Most times, despite what the media and your racist Facebook friends will report, those explosions look like “peaceful” protests; powerful, organized moments of solidarity and congregation; and amazing moments of intellectual and artistic brilliance. On other, very valid and righteous occasions, it looks like self-defense, like fighting back – like rioting,