It’s too late already–but I’ve been trying to imprint winter on my consciousness, building memories for when it doesn’t happen anymore. Wind digging into my cheeks, snapping the tail of my scarf like a whip. The delicate balance between the layers of wool I’m wearing, the chill outside, and the body heat expended walking through snow. I’ve had cross country skis on my Christmas wish list for three years now. Next year, I’ll take them off–they won’t be worth having anymore.
3,500 flying foxes died in Australia when temperatures spiked to 107 degrees in 2002, according to a recent study cited by this alarmist AP article. Sigh. Do we really need to be alarmist about this–given how bad things actually are?