Nothing. No tracks but my own are stitched into the dusting of fresh snow, white as birch bark, that fell during the night. No flittering shadows in the trees, not a sliver¹ of bird song in the air.

 

What sun there is this time of year shines weakly, halfheartedly through the white gauze of clouds, offering not even the slightest pretense² of warmth. For nearly a week temperatures around my Wisconsin cabin have not risen above zero. The mercury seems painted to the bottom of the thermometer.

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