…North wind, I would be all wet and hairy, cold-blasting through the towns and cities in my path, push-sending people rushing for cover. I would follow them into their shelters, fast-forcing the doors open, seeking for myself warmth and rest. But the doors slam shut in my face. Outside, slow old men, beards frozen, eyelashes frosted, noses frigid and dripping, lean stubbornly into me, still sloshing, slipping toward…

By Abigail Moore