An unseen wind chases me fearlessly. There is a salty grit in my hair and my lips are chapped with the cold? snow burned my taste buds momentarily, but the aftertaste was worth it all. You can smell it on me now. I can smell it. A pirouette upon those soft white mounds and I am free. This is what chases me, endlessly; the freedom of cracked mouths, sore and in love with one another; the liberty of wet hair, matted in tender knots, each clump lovingly nudging the next and if you get close you can see each almost-broken strand holding hands in unison. They are unified and so are my lips. I soothe them with my  newly frozen tongue.
While beating the soft powder between the palm of my hands, the memories of warmth and the delicious green grass it brings are lost to that point on the horizon you cannot quite see unless, of course, you take a step closer. I don’t wish to take that step just yet so I’ll stand right here and look backwards instead. Pine trees stand in ceremonial position here. Waving friendly arms at me they smile lovingly and invite me over for a drink - another drink of snow. Except this time, it is from their own cups, held out in the air for a day catching the snowflakes fresh and blending it with their own fragrances. This tastes even better than the last lot. But then things always do taste better when given to you by somebody else. I was told that once. It has been true ever since.
I fear the red hat I am wearing makes me look like a scurrying exotic beetle from above. I look upwards to make sure everybody knows that I am not a beetle, especially not an exotic one. I’ve heard they can be quite dangerous if provoked. No, that is definitely not me. I am more your ordinary beetle, who when provoked will lie helplessly on their back – legs and feet in the air flailing aimlessly about for hours until somebody is kind enough to put them right again.