Perspective

Twenty-four degrees for the high today. In our house, where there's no insulation, the cold finds a way in through the cracks in the walls and around the windows. We learned quickly, this year, to dress in layers. To wear scarves inside. To gather in one room, beneath quilts and comforters, waiting for the space heater to work its magic.

We're cranky and irritated, cooped up, all of us, in one room with two energetic dogs and a cat. We need to get out. 

We bundle up in hats, scarves, boots and gloves; clip a leash on one of the dogs; and head for the woods.

Our breath comes out in great puffs. Our feet crunch the frozen ground. We can hear the stillness of the world as it quiets. Ahead of us is a man without a hat, his three dogs darting through the trees, barking and yipping, zipping towards us before veering away again. Besides him, besides us, the woods are empty.

The mud puddles are filled with water and frozen over with ice so thick I can't break it. But the water in the creek still flows. We cross, careful not to get our boots wet, and climb up the bank.

The water at the reservoir ripples in the wind, wind that tears at our faces and fingertips. The sky begins to spit snow.

We head towards town.

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