A pair of aged eyes looks knowingly up at the Sky, waiting for the Moon to reveal itself. She carries her child, an infant of no more than ten weeks, close to her bosom. Her jacket wraps around him, a layer of protection against the biting cold. The Moon reveals itself for several moments, until another passing cloud obscures it from human sight. She lets out a sharp breath and watches the air fog in front of her. She studies the tree standing resolute and firm, a promise in the harsh winter. The slight breeze rolling over the landscape muffles a faint cry. The mother soothes her child and parts from the familiar hideaway of her youth.
The wizened eyes look critically across the landscape. She sits frigidly on a frosted tree stump, fighting for each breath. The cold air seems cooler than it did all those years ago, she thinks. Leaving a world to fend for itself, a blanket of clouds covers the Moon tonight. The leaves are all gone, bagged and disposed of. The bare trees stand silhouetted against the faint light glowing in the distance. Even the Grasshoppers seem silent this night. It is a silence that deafens. The crone leans tiredly against her gnarled cane and waits. She knew something would happen in this place that night exactly sixty-eight years ago. She had felt it. Yet, nothing she felt that night could have pointed to her finding her death site. The following morning, with the sun shining brightly overhead, her son finds her in exactly the same position. He fights back tears, and reminds himself that this is all part of life. Simply, it is the Cycle of Three.