as we were walking i was remembering my childhood winters when i had bronchitis for weeks and coughed blood and felt i would die. still i built tunnels and forts of snow. i thought i would die and i made snow angels. i thought i would die and i made snow people with stones for eyes. i rolled with the dog and ate pure white small town snow. it's different in the city at 60. it's different riding the bike on old bones. it's different in the changed weather. winter comes early now, in october when before i was still swimming til november. 
b. said it feels like a cruel joke- i thought global warming would be pleasant for a while for us in this area. true that lie sounded nice for us in chicago, a little global warming, what the hey, it could be nice, a break from the hard winter. don't we deserve a romantic break now? chestnuts by the fire, blood red wine with nice legs in goblets, a dog at our feet. i think of my father when i think of winter, how he loved cozy wood fires, how his chainsaw assaulted the snowy silence under the pines, how his saw reared back and cleft his upper lip. how the silence settled and his blood dotted the snow. finally they call it a crisis, yet we imagine the rich will always seek out and buy the islands of paradise as they migrate around the planet. well i'm stuck here for now. i imagine when mister dies wandering away into a temperate forest somewhere, following a trail of crumbs left by forest spirits.