The temp, without wind chill, has been staying at minus twenty-five below zero at night and then a high of minus twelve degrees during the day. Little Russian girls in their long homemade dresses and scarves, bundled up against the cold, look much like little old ladies bent against the wind. The children walk in small quiet groups, little puffs of air rising from warm mouths and creating pools of fog around their bent heads. Even the moisture from their breaths freeze within minutes, and fall down upon them. By the time they get to the small school, some of them have little armies of crystals settling on top of their heads.
Nothing moves at night now.
It is too cold and the real month of cold hasn't even begun yet. There are now three street lights on my narrow icy street, but a haze can only be seen and under Matushka P's light a lone cow moose stands, huddled against the severe night. It is clear above. The stars drip with ice and appear closer to us. They are everywhere, galaxies infinite.