january, you can be so bleak. the cold is a sharp rouse in the morning. sleep stirred, i can feel the bite of a windchill beckoning for a quick reform. you’re awake now. it’s dismal, yes. the palette outside is muted. bob ross may be the only one smiling right now, a landscape sheer with ice and outfitted in a comfortable layer of snow. our hills seemingly honor and welcome the wintry adjustment, the ponderosa pines elevating into the most austere of circumstances. and while subconsciously i find a myriad of excuses to make tracks in the snow, it’s just the biting cold that tempts my somber. our afternoon mailman recently trumpeted that if one is cold “put some clothes on, you’re American!” – an exclamation that i’m still questioning the intended integrity of.
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