I am out with lanterns. I am not looking for myself but finding a pathway. Through growing drifts, I sift my way towards the bounding lines of the acreage. This silent attention is a reflection in the dark. I tip my head towards the watchtower of night, soundless and suspended between the motley of its stars. “Here. Here is a hold into the dawn.” I dart amongst the lightweight canopies of the golden, still-leaved willows and swerve through the heavy-laden skirts of the white spruce. Every stride is an enchanted tiptoe, an attempt not to rouse the drowsy snow. While the lofts slumber on, steady wisps blow and saltate south across the open fields.
The journey to the backroad from the doorstep is far less distant than it appears, though it seems to span a century throughout the winter. I am no rabbit. I am no dove. I cannot leap nor can I sail through the squalls without occasionally dropping through. Now, boot prints drag me deeper and out of tempo. A new rhythm is needed to show the way. “One, two, three. One, two, three. Step, slide, sink. Step, slide, sink.” The beat strums steadily as I quietly amble on.
The skyline boasts in boldened navy, independent and fierce in its frigid stare. Freeze begins at my fingertips, where worn mittens meet the metal of the lamplight. Flakes pelt and cloud my eyes. The wind swings my arms wide, scattering shine across the rugged wild of the prairie. My Newfoundland dog tugs at my elbow, his seal-eyed, full-whiskered face smitten as he breathes in the bracing wind. He runs ahead, disappearing into the shadows after only a few feet. I grip the lanterns tighter and purse my lips to whistle a numb, low note or two. He pivots back and heels, pausing to glance upwards in the rosy glow.
December’s cold hands shake us loose as we traipse farther into the hum. There is little we can see on the surface, so I whisper below the howl into his ebony coat. “This. This is the act of waiting.” We walk onwards in a narrowing place, the outside edges corralling us inwards. We shed wishfulness and adopt expectancy. We cradle the flame of hope against the elements. We become assured in our direction. This is our inheritance. Standing on the roadway, pressed against the palm of twilight, we remain. We keep vigil.
The waning starlight shimmers, and I shiver as its softness reaches and settles between marrow and bone. Bitter is the chill of frost hanging in the air. Still, the lanterns shine. They have held us through the evening and into the brightening horizon. The view stirs slowly, stretching in an endless wave. “Certain. How certain is the return of the sun.” It gleams without fade as my four-legged friend bounces eagerly after the flurries. Snow falls to the contented patter of his footsteps. They are speckled prisms of white against the sure and azure, rising light of the morning.