Every time the cold North wind blows, I’m reminded where I come from and I’m far from home.
Where Winters food was earned from Summer crops and hunts from the fall. The penetrating heat from a stove filled with wood from trees we cut and split. Early mornings running the trap line, later nights skinning the days catch to make due.
I’m the last of a bloodline to live in those days. Now it’s asphalt, people and vehicles everywhere I look.
When winter bites and everybody runs scared. I stand outside and smile at the cold North air.