Winter's Fist

The temperature is predicted to climb ever so slowly out of single digits. The week ahead may see it dance into the thirties. This forecast feels like a heat-wave wearing a jester's hat poking fun at us.  Anyone this far north knows that after the 'January thaw' comes the 'February freeze'.

Last night the wind howled a ballad of which we are all to familiar this time of year. It rushed across acres of land and our house could only brace itself.  Walls remarked in quick shrill sounds of protest against it's gusting weight.  Fey fingers found tiny openings in window frames and sketched the nights activities with icy thin fingers across the glass.  I huddled closer to the stove, posturing for space taken up by cats.

This morning the crows stepped lightly cross the snow in our yard like funeral directors with hands behind their backs in solemn reflection.  They pretended not to hear the noisy protests from an audience of turkeys stalking them from the woodland edge.  

I've noticed that the owls have gone quiet, I image they retreat into thicker sections of cedar, hemlock and pine this time of year.  They do not frequent the offerings we leave for other visitors, preferring, of course, game with a heartbeat.

My walk to the inlet brought the meaning of 'deep freeze' brilliantly into perspective.  The beauty of the frozen waterway, a white shroud thrown across the shore and winter's silence.  Against the curtain of cold I tried to console myself that this was a time of rest and renewal for all living things, that spring was not far behind.  The image of a green world was conjured from what felt like a distant memory.  

The Old Ones in this hinterland reach for anything warm. Their bone brittle fingers waiting to grow new skin when planting season comes.  Having petitioned the sun with customs losing favor in an technological world, I am like so many of my kind, heartened by the reassurance of what rituals can secure.

Rituals aside, spring will come, regardless, it always does.