I sometimes think the view from my window is dying, collapsing into decline and inevitable decay. As evidence, I watch the leaves blowing around the barn and piling up on the fences. The trees are bare, becoming silent as the small creatures of summer migrate away or burrow in. But there is another way to look at cold. It may just be necessary and hidden renewal. Under that snowy blanket is rebirth, and vigor like a coiled spring. The patient man, wrapped in his coat and woolens, may find in the cold purification and hope.
Four lines of prose about : cold