frosted

The solitude becomes me, as the snow begins to cover the ground, I curl up on the couch with books and music, oversleeping the next morning and continuing the introversion. Maybe it's the lack of frigid this year, but the cold feels especially bitter and the lack of commitments welcome.

I come out of my shell on Sunday, plotting geekery, drinking coffee, standing in a kitchen in West Park as we talk about everything, before heading east with a pair of skis and poles wedged the long way, to traverse the snowy hills with a friend and her significant others and others.

The rest of them are more outdoorsy, but those early trips with my dad and his friend with a cassette of 'The Joshua Tree' on reap in his friend's Jeep gave me a start that's become easier with less awkward adult limbs. There's something meditative about the gliding motion, and the vast expanse of white under a grey sky and the blotted sun fading into the black trees. There is red behind the pines, and the world is blue and lavender and orange over us. I follow the rest, lost in the strange and lonesome beauty, knowing that this will melt in a matter of days. We sit in the garage and drink hot chocolate and share a loaf of monkey bread

I wish the moon was rising over these hills, but it comes out as I drive home down the twists and turns through evergreen forest and waterfalls hidden in the gorge euphoric from the endorphins. I need to get out here more.