He shifts in the wind haunted by the snow and ice and fog rolling in from the mountains. He stands there stolid, stoic, silent waiting for the sun to rise and warm his chilled extremities. Too long has he waited for the sun. Perhaps it won’t come, won’t rise. The wind whistles mocking him knowing he can’t get away. Shivers run up and down he waits. Faintly, in the distance, something glistens, catches his eye. A drop of dew or rain or water somewhere glistening. The wind doesn’t fade but waxes searing him with ice, death on its hands. It sees the glistening, knows its time is short. It seeks to wreck him, but if he can just wait a little longer, just hold out hope, the sun will come turning the snow to rain. Slowly, faithfully, painstakingly warming him. It hasn’t come yet, the sun still sits far out on the horizon marching inexorably across the frozen land, but it is coming. Slowly. The frigid air still knifes through him till he can barely think or stand. He’s dying slowly. And then it arrives. The sun greets his branches and warms them. It looks like he’s lived another winter after all.