There are turns of the year when you finally see the single thing all of it has been circling — and you almost look away.

Gold to orange around a white that does not waver, fierce and still at once. It holds the warmth of full sun on the back of the neck and the clean, plain scent of fresh bread.

We keep the year busy partly to avoid its one true question. The sigil doesn't answer it — it burns steady enough that the thing the whole season was about can be looked at directly, without flinching it back into the noise.