When the cold cuts a bleed from the skin, theres no better liquor than the crunch of snow under snowshoe, bundled and wrapped. The faint flirt of sun fondling eyelids and the hoof of late winter stomping plumes from your throat. Nothing seems more fitting than a cup of tea under it's thawing thumb. Cutting trail, shoveling camp, carving kitchen from snow above the silence of ice edging into river and the creek of tree leaning into the swing of a warm hammock.
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