It is eleven degrees below zero Farenheit out there in that frozen nirvana.
The only thing alive is the tracks.
The tracks show what has happened, what is happening, what will happen. The tracks are breezes from the heart beats of small animals. The tracks are out there, we are in here; cozy, warm.
How do they survive out there in the frozen tundra? How do they make it through the night? I see nothing out there, I haven't seen a creature in a week. I haven't been outside of Minneapolis in months, other then one trip to my grandparents farm to look at an old truck.
The cold quickly seeps into bone marrow. I need to lower my metabolism down to nothing to survive this cold. My body doesn't crave food so much as warmth. Our modern conveniences appear miraculous to me these days. Turning up the heat, turning on the stove, taking a hot shower. All this warmth divorced from it's source, which here in Minnesota is nuclear and coal power mostly. Maybe I use wind power, I can only hope.
The tracks are fresh like biscuits, then they crumble a bit at the edges. They become small indentations. Thaw and freeze recycles them. They are small pocks in the snow. Nothing, a ghost.
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