The whispers of October failed to let on to the deafening roar that would become November. The clouds rolled in and the rains shaped the land as they have since time began. The frigid wind shook weaker leaves from their solid wooden foundations. Hair follicles struggled to grow before the winds brought stiff joints and lack of motivation. Muddy footprints existed where once only dusty tracks had been laid. And as it always did, the snow came. Fat wet flakes and deep, dry powder. Thin skims and thick, heavy dumps. Nature’s dandruff draped like a blanket on Mother Nature’s shoulders. It settled on the backs of all creatures and brought warmth although it was not warm. The animals scurried for shelter and took comfort in the well deserved slumber of hibernation . Creeks froze solid and trees sagged, burdened with the melancholy weight of Earth’s darkest season. For what does this season exist, this wretched stretch of nature’s test? Is it a cold analysis of our ability’s to survive? Some sort of frigid assessment of our worth in a wilderness which we have forgot? The result of a civilization which values convenience over substance?
Time passed and the winds did indeed bring the aching knees and crackling knuckles. They brought the bitterness and the biting cold and the baring of souls of all creatures. More importantly, it brought the snow, and with the snow, for one creature, all other worries were cast to the side. With woolen paw and scarfen neck he struck out in to the white. Climbing, climbing, climbing, over rocks and through the trees, under cliffs and up the steeps, climbing. The other creatures, those that dared the cold, would watch, surprised, as the silly fool made a mockery of nature’s worst. Then resort back to their dens as the creature climbed higher. and higher. Finally reaching the destination of which he feels worthy, the wintery one looks out upon the land below and chooses a path of least resistance or perhaps a path of more resistance. Nevertheless, with frozen paw and runny nose he pushes off into the white, one last time today. Embracing the pull of gravity, he drops into the alabaster void. Skis pierce and carve Mother Nature’s blanket as he descends from the lofty peak. Falling, falling, falling, over rock and through the trees, over cliffs and down the steeps. falling. And the creatures watch. – Mike Berard