Sub-Zero

It isn't as if there are many options in the end... but today I set out on my walk the opposite way round from usual... because of the presence of ice, and my preference for ascending rather than descending an icy slope. I set out with my walking pole, up the lane in the wind, snow moving stealthily into the valley all the while. No one in the field, not the mole catcher and his dog, not the bent old man in the sack-coloured overcoat, who always seems to be burying something. Cows and calves, black and white, pigs in the mud, horses in the top fields. In the icy wind I wonder again how they stay warm, how they keep from perishing in sub-zero temperatures. What is the secret of their hide, their hair that they don't need a vest, a t shirt, a jumper, a cardigan, a quilted jacket, a scarf, a hat, gloves, socks and boots? Ice is thick and doesn't yield to the tapping of my stick. I edge around the treacherous tongue of ice that lolls down the wet part of the lane, so carefully surfaced to prevent it once again being washed out by flood waters, surfaced black, shiny and smooth, the perfect setting for an ice slick. No dog at the farm at the top to frighten me but the wind is howling as if to portend the end of the world, and I tell myself I've seen too many films, wonder how my experience of the world would be different had I never been to the cinema...