Last Tramp For Tea

When the cold cuts a bleed from the skin there’s no liquor better than the crunch of snow under snowshoe. Bundled and wrapped, the faint flirt of sun fondling eyelids and the hoof of late winter stomping plumes from your throat. Nothing seems more fitting than a cup of tea under its thawing thumb. Cutting trail, shoveling camp, carving kitchen from snow above the silence of ice edging into river and the creak of tree leaning into the swing of a warm hammock.

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