Before we slide into cold torpor
Every year, we long for green. And every year we watch that colour recede into browns and reds and yellows with the same muted excitement. We know the signal—one last, bright fire before we slide into cold torpor, the vast, and hollow sleepiness of winter ahead. And yet, every year we welcome the change. We’re Creatures of the North, I guess.
In our neighbourhood, you can only see hints of it: sparse blades of wilted grass; treetops dipped in ochre. But yesterday the house got cold enough to set our system to heat. That’s when you know.
A few weeks of green
and then we sleep.
