Rumble

It's the kind of cold that hurts your teeth. I try to keep my mouth closed, but the wind pierces through as I breathe. My cheeks are numb to my touch, and my ears are seized by the roar of the wind. My hands curl into themselves, forming fists to ward against the invasion of the icy wind cutting through my two layers of gloves.

My feet tread on the swath of white that had looked so majestic from the inside. The snow seeps through my soles, the inner sanctum where my feet had been encased in dry wool socks. I trudge on even though I have nowhere to go. I carefully land my feet at 90 degree angles to leave as much of the snow undisturbed, to preserve the pristine whiteness. I look back, and I can see each imprint I had made on the white canvas, one step after the next in a clean sequence that looks so deliberate, decisive.

I can no longer feel the warmth of my own breath when I blow into the hood of my coat. The shrill, howling wind overpowers my internal generator, and I know I am but a speck. The lake is undulating, as if beckoning me closer, and I edge closer. There, I find blocks and chunks of ice, as large as pianos, once frozen together, but now free to dance their own dance. And in this dance, they slam and crash against each other, as if to defy the containment, as if screaming for more space. There I stand in the pristine snow, feeling the rumble inside of me grow.