Cold. Why does it feel so accurate to describe the arctic cold as if it were alive? That it bites your skin with its cold and nips at your ears until they burn. You can hide from it in dense wools and light downs for a time. But the cold has a way of seeping in. As if it sits against that barrier you created of your own heat and sewn fleece and waits. Waiting for that energy to eb from inactivity, from the trust we put in our parkas. It feels for the seams in our jackets. It squeezes into the teeth of our zippers. It settles there. Until our skin is chilled, until our bones start to feel hollow with it.
And then we move. We jog up our dog team to replace a bootie and the cold huffs back out of our parkas to once again sit on the frost that has begun to decorate our clothing.
The beast that it is; it creates worlds here in the arctic. It works hard to seperate the passionate from the indifferent.
My dogs love this beast, so I love it too.
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