Once, I snapped on skis, whispered through the snow in winters that were cold. Then came the thaw, rain, freeze, ice, gray and perilous, glazing streets, driveways, and trails. So, I thrust my feet into boots with tiny daggers embedded in their soles. Clickety, scritch, clickety, scritch. Castanets announcing my passage to the forest where the creek, once a faint burble beneath the ice, bursts free. Black water slicing channels, forming pools, stranding white shards along the banks. And in the swamp, brown water seeps from underground and forms frozen rivulets down the trail. No daydreaming here when even spikes slip their grip. Warming oceans, torrential rains, vicious winds, shattered trees. Nothing certain but more destruction in winter that is no more. Give me cold, blinding sun on dazzling snow. Skis gliding, lashes frosting, scarf stiffening with frozen breath. I love my cleats but bring back winter. I miss my northern home.
