It has been snowing for four weeks and he is alone. He stands at the small window in the evening and watches the world disappear through the frost. The snow comes up to the bottom windowsill now, which he makes to be about four feet. He hasn’t been outside in 13 days, ever since the first big blizzard, when it got to be more trouble than it was worth to shovel the space around the door clean. He had food and water and fuel enough to last him six months. He has survived the long winters before, he has learned patience.

In the morning the snow has covered the window and the sunlight comes through blue and warm. He sits in the brightest spot and thinks about what is happening outside.

In the night he listens to the trees exploding as he sits in bed. They pop and retort like distant shelling and he remembers long marches grown nostalgic by the comfortable space of years, by the patient gathering of time.

After two months the light is brighter in the room and he is at a loss to explain it for some time. The snow is getting thinner between him and the air. The snow is melting, spring is coming. His cans and his hides have grown less but there is still enough and more than enough. He is patient but the blood moves just faster through him. He stirs to the unchanging song and looks to spring.

When the snow is all melted he comes blinking into the world. He gathers the earliest flowers and gives them to the spring winds.