Page 77 - Dark Matter Issue5 Part II

ANNE BERGERON

Winter

“By midcentury, it is predicted, there will be no more glaciers

and a million species of living beings will become extinct.

The end of winter might mean the end of life.

What is the future of winter, of snow, of ice?”

Gretel Ehrlich from The Future of Ice: A Journey Into Cold

Twenty degrees below zero. The bird feeder is empty, the heel of bread eaten, the weekend

visitors have closed the door behind them. Orion is up, not a tree moves, nothing expends

energy, only what is needed to hold everything in place. I keep my wits, kindle a big fire in the

Freeflow barrel stove, place a worn sheepskin on my chair and curl up. The barely insulated

walls of my one-room cabin and the fire are my warmth.

The thaw begins the next day. After a stretch of sub-zero mornings, one ice storm and many

snowfalls, the world unlocks. I split wood in the warm sunshine in army issue wool pants, an

Icelandic sweater, and knitted cap. Walking into town with the dogs to get the mail, I inspect

moose tracks in the center of the dirt road. They lead to a pile of first cut hay, full of vetch, red

clover, and timothy -- my neighbor’s offering to the resident moose, who like all of us, has been

working overtime to stay warm this past month. When I return home, it is too sunny to go inside,

so I make myself an outdoor room. I kneel beneath the maple tree where the bird feeder attracts

chickadees, nuthatches, blue jays, and red squirrels. There, in deep snow, I sculpt a bench and

a round table. The snow holds beautifully: wet, dense, and deep. On the table, I place a clay pot

full of hemlock boughs. I collect two pack baskets worth of sticks and a scroll of white birch bark.

I dig out my fire pit and kindle a fire with twigs and bark. I marinate chicken, clean the cabin, and

invite a friend to supper.

As daylight falls away, I look west toward the red glow where ridgeline meets sky. Inside, I run

spring water over watercress, parsley, and purple cabbage, then toss them with oil in a red

Mexican bowl. Behind me the sky deepens with darkness. The fire has burned down, and it is

still warm inside. As I move a lighted match toward the mantle on the gas lamp, I hear footsteps