This is when they scoff at us, when the mercury doesn't just dip, but catapults off its temperate bridge fist first into cold that is COLD that is FRIGID that collapses lungs and cleaves breath. Can I blame them? No. I have only thought left. But these winds, these snows, these afternoons laced quickly by black--their furies are full of double-dog-dares and long, weighty stares, and I will I will I must keep glaring back.