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Welcome , Winter
In the north, winter does not knock on the door. It enters with its own key, takes off its snowy gloves in the middle of the hall, and looks at you as if to say: We are late for the cold. Dawn here is short as an apology, and the day walks along the shadows like a cautious cat. In this climate, you learn that warmth is not just a number on the heater; warmth is a daily habit, a small care, and a determination not to let your humanity freeze before your fingers do.
Every year, before the storms descend and snow seals the roads with its official stamp, I take out my woolen gloves, my hammer, and two pieces of wood that slowly transform into two birdhouses. I put a thermos of coffee in the bag — the heart also needs liquid support — and head out to the trees. Not because I am a hero of nature stories, but because the equation of hunger with cold is too harsh to be left to chance: cold that gnaws at the bone, and hunger that nibbles what remains of the pulse. Everything has a heart, and every heart needs care.
The wind here is a strict employee. It hates no one; it just does its job as taxes do. My neighbor Lars drives by, waves, and says sarcastically, “Installing satellite broadcasting for birds?” I laugh and reply, “The Ministry of Winds granted me a temporary license.” We laugh because sarcasm warms the air a little, then I continue. I choose a branch that does not face the storm directly, tie the rope well, and hammer the nail like…
