At the top of the hill,
the year lay'd out below you,
Growing up, you thought it'd be a valley,
But in fimbulwinter's grip, all lovely snow and shine
The rest between the sounds of creation
As Percey and Hyades till their dark fields,
Churn their own cream from their shadow cattle,
Write really bad poetry
Make jokes about wotan hanging from the tree,
And shiver in the cold
But, still,
They embrace it, making snow devils
-food cake, lacing it with pomegranite seeds for unwary travellers,
At the top of the hill, I can just make out, on the horizon,
Dear easter, dancing in green and yellow,
But for now it is playing in the endless white (or endless wet),
With everything resting, recuperating.
Ready for anything.
--Groovin with Wotan, copywright 2005

And a cute online game: http://newgrounds.com/portal/view/284193