Barefoot in the darkness on thin fall snow, I stop walking. My feet will be freezing soon, and I’m only here to listen. Forty steps behind is the small yellow glow of lamplight coming from the window in my sod home. Inside, I have hardwood steaming for runners for a dogsled, and I need to get back in to make sure the water doesn’t boil dry.
Above the branches and brush, the stars are sharp and a thin fingernail moon offers little luminance. From the north comes a cold breeze, hardly more than a stir. The aurora is weak too, faint green smoke up against the stars, and not enough to light the night. Ice pans far out in the river make soft roars as they collide with heaped fast ice, tinkle, and then spin silently on their way west.
My feet are feeling the cold. South, across the dark river, float the comments of a longtime companion, a great horned owl. Whooo.
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