Winter has come. It dusted in under a full moon, lighting the night world aglow. It’s the time of peppermint tea, warm radiators, cold winds on immobile white waves that lap at the narrow tracks made by fragile man across the great wilderness.

This is a land that could eat you alive. And I know it, and I love it for its ferocity. I’ve nearly died in water; I’ve never nearly died in winter, for there’s no such thing as the wrong weather, only the wrong clothing. Inhabitant of the northern byways, I’m outfitted for this unlikely feast.

I would be baptized into the darkness, in the ethereal hallowing of the dying world under a silver that radiates from the ground, swirls in icy breezes, fogs the sharp diamonds and the great round circle which light the black air above. It’s a full moon snow, and sleep and death have fallen. Let it rage; no joy compares to watching it melt away in the dawn of spring.