found myself Reading:
Snow. Snow white.
Sometimes during the winter, my fantasies weren't much different than my reality. I'd see a raven or I'd dream a raven . . . And each evoked the same aloneness, the same gaping separateness.
I'd seen an Indian boy a mile out on the lake, walking towards me, a boy with a red toque and a fur parka, perfectly placed in the light between the sky and the world, walking across the lake, across a bight white desert. His legs would move but he never seemed to get any closer . . . or further away.
Mary Kwandibens told me - that was before she stopped talking to me - that winter was a time of holding on, that the soul went underground to lie like a woman long and straight upon a bed of ice, to sleep and be restored, to rise up new and refreshed in the spring like a young girl.
But that makes winter seem like a time of peace and it wasn't. It was a horrible onslaught.
(Wendy Lill. The Occupation of Heather Rose.)