February has destroyed dozens of our limbs.  They have become black and

frozen like the ground.  All infected men have stayed in bed where they

become sad and useless, which is exactly what February wants.  The rest of

us stay up all night sketching plans for a new war strategy.  We take turns

pacing the home, crumpling up paper, disregarding each idea that springs

from our stupid mouths.  Selah makes tea with rose hips which we quietly sip

as another gray morning rises.  Without an idea, we question if we should

even continue our daily assault of warm weather tactics.  A few of the men,

mostly the sculptors, have dressed for the day in long pants and heavy

sweaters.  They throw up their hands and walk out the door.  Selah is

standing in the doorway trying to make out the mountain peeks behind the

clouds and snow.  I watch her drop her tea cup and that's when she says I

should come look.  I walk over and she points to her feet.  The hot tea has

burned a path through the snow from our front door and down and into the

town.