Lately it seems that my view of winter has changed. I see the snow and feel the cold and see it as a risky challenge to locomotion of the vehicular and pedestrian kind. When I was a kid in Toronto I used to spend hours on my skates up at the park at the end of our street playing shinny on the natural ice rink. I would blast the puck against the plywood boards. When my shot went high I would walk off the ice and see if I could find it in the snow. Come the Spring thaw, one could harvest lost pucks from the park.
Winter is the obvious metaphor for old age. Although it is the sleepy time of the year, as I have aged my sleep has escaped from me. Many nights I am awake at all hours after midnight. I read a little. I talk to the cats who stare at me reprovingly for disturbing their sleep. I listen to the northwest wind humming at the windows. I look out at the inky void outside and see nothing. Unless the sky is clear and the moon is shining its magic blue light.