Dense whiteness of the snow, opaque and insulating, filling the gap between earth and tarp, blocking frigid air, protecting. Muffling.
Panic! Will I be buried alive in my warm cocoon, undiscovered until the spring thaw, rats and ravens drawn by the stench of my decay?
In the thready pulse of night, I wake. Fearing suffocation, I uncover my head and shoulders, frantically stabbing my hickory walking stick through the breathing hole. Must keep it open. Is this how a surfacing whale feels?
I pull the sleeping bag around my neck, try to stop shivering. Drift into fitful sleep.
Vague memory: a warm Mexican beach. Morning has finally arrived; pale light filters through my closed eyelids.
I have no idea how long I’ve slept. Diffuse white light surrounds me. Is this heaven?
Drip drip drip icy water on my face. Condensation from my own breath.
Desert Dweller 