Wednesday November 24 2010
The air is sharp and cold: -1*F at dawn. It singes your nose and burns your lungs as it goes down; your fingers and toes start to sting as the feeling goes out of them.
A red-tailed hawk waits in a tree above the creek for the golden rays to warm him before he begins his hunt for breakfast.
The languid horses wait for the sun to crest the ridge, to melt the light blanket of ice on their coats.
The sun comes and Jose naps in the warmth.