this year

It's a February night, cold but not unbearable. I am far from city lights and the sky is breathtakingly clear. The boy beside me has a camera slung over his shoulder. Sounds are scarce this late in winter, but it's not cold enough to freeze the noisy stream bubbling nearby. I'm incredibly comfortable, with the cold, with the boy, with the quiet; I haven't enjoyed simple existence this much in a long time.

If I am lucky, and I think I might be, this feeling will persist through the change when the weather warms again. But for now, I don't even mind shoveling the snow that is forecast for this evening.