There's a Himalayan motif to the day here ten miles east of the Roof of the World, where the North American continent splits in half and the rivers flip a cosmic coin by virtue of gravity to decide between flowing east or west. Tibetan gusts whip up snow devils atop the high peaks, along the mountainsides, and even at the valley's floor. Phantasms of the day before's storm. A lingering memory of an Arctic kiss, of which the snowbums savor like an erotic encounter.
I sip the last of my mourning jasmine and contemplate scrambled eggs with Tunisian tabil spice for breakfast. Black-eyed peas soak upon the stove, slowly getting into context to be cooked the next time the sun rises. The dogs lay in various places around my feet and near the fire.
Milarepa, the youngest of the three, normally loves to be outside, no matter the weather. Often, I indulge her. I left her out for an hour and half after they all ate. When I came out to get her, a snow devil embraced us, the ice crystals a caress of tiny talons and barbs. Milarepa looked up at me, her canid glance seemed to say;
"Fuck this noise!" But perhaps I antropomorphize.
Luna and Shuja lay on the couch. Mother and son, coiled around one another more like serpents than cats. They alternate between cleaning one another and sleeping. Eeeva Tiny Voice finds the bed a much better spot to nap. Felix, Phoebe, Emma'Weee!, Burleigh, Pandora, and Ashbee all huddle together in a single sleep-sack, looking like a slumbering mustelidae hydra. I'm sure there are those who would find the sight cute beyond words. The hominid female I live with would most likely be one of them.
Days like this and times like these, when Tibetan winds whip up the snow devils and Arctic kisses have given the very atmosphere a quality of kerosene, spun glass, and razorblades, it's a good thing to not have any obligations. One might even go as far as to say it's a blessing. There were things I had considered doing, but the weather outside is too frightful, whilst the fire inside is nothing short of delightful.
So, instead, I look out the window. The snow devils dance along the gusts, substantial, if only for a moment, before fading into phantasm. A reminder of impermanence. Of how every moment is unique and should truly be savored. The tall peaks, half-shrouded in mists of ice and cloud, are no less majestic. Like the stars, to look upon them, is to gaze upon the face of the Divine. And in that, even on a brutally cold day, there is a sense of peace and comfort of which the clumsy language of half-bald monkeys cannot fully describe.