Dusk descends. The deep blue of the night sky edges its way into darkness and evening begins to fall. Stars mottle the nightscape and any heat the earth consumed during the day is slowly released back into that vast open space. The long spindly finger of Old Man Winter begins to caress the world and the cold enters everything it touches. Trees snap and groan in their defiance of the stinging night air and animals have long since retired to the protection of their dens.
The smallest portion of exposed skin is ambushed by the cold and is threatened by the gnawing jaws of frost bite. It hurts to breathe but the beauty of a cold winter night is unparalleled. The sky seems anxious to introduce every star in the milky way without the intrusion of clouds and the silence is deafening.
This is my winter. These are the nights that I am drawn into the cold for the sole purpose of watching the stars put the sun to bed for another night. I tilt my head back to take in the constellations and wait for a shooting star. This is life in my Northern town. This is the pastel portrait that saturates my brain before I go to sleep.