Chapter 1, Post 2: The Man Who Does Not Exist

Sniffing the air, cold pierced his nostrils, and he found the scent of snow lingering behind the clouds. If he had ever known the names of the months, they no longer held any meaning, but by his reckoning, the time for berry picking was past. Pumpkins, he thought, could still be found growing in far away fields waiting for the first frost. And yet, here, in his mountains, the first of the winter storms was nearly upon him.

It was no early season, here-today, gone-tomorrow dusting. He knew the signs. Grizzlies gathered trout and stayed longer at the streams to pack on fat. The elk herds had moved to the warmth and grass of the lower valley. The mournful bleat of harlequined Canadians floated down as they sailed south under cover of darkness. Even the coats of the wooly worms were plumped to ward off the chill.
Nature always knew.

How something as mindless as a worm could prognosticate months in advance the intensity of winter baffled. Nature liked its mysteries, revealing them in its own time.