In the city people lock their jaws as the wind stings their faces. On the subway they burrow into parkas and hide their heads under stretchy hats. Human bodies—smooth and vulnerable—are covered in layers of plastic, wool and artificial fur.
In parks the ground crunches under foot. First the heel goes in with a thud. Then the front of the foot rocks forward with its own grinding noise.
Winter is no time for the big picture. You focus. You notice that every log burns in its own way at its own pace. The cedar pieces like to pop. The soggy, dense logs never really flare up enthusiastically but just lie there and melt.
You hang on specific words. Is it “immune to adversity” or “immune from adversity”? You notice a long shadow outside. Is it already 2:30? Then a snowflake. Then another. Then another. Every flake is unique, they say. And another.
Winter broods—and draws us into its moodiness. Winter can be very still and quiet. It promises us nothing. What it delivers we ourselves have to create.