Dearest Winter, We may have started this year on the wrong foot, doomed before it began, much like the years before. But Bellwoods is near-covered in this stuff. This deceiving, fragile stuff. The wind bites off tips of ears and noses, as if they were just waiting for them to fall clean off, collecting them for the worms. Whatever the reason for this blinding whiteness, we'll play anyway. We'll cover the better parts of our fingers and find the courage to pluck and strum. We'll watch the air leave our lungs in smokey bundles, dissolving and retreating into nothingness. We'll move a little slower, tightened strings from the cold. We'll dress in Sunday's best, camel coats and smokey grey parkas and we will defeat you. Our skin matches yours now, white on white. We'll sing gentle songs until the sun's rays reveal Bellwoods Park at her finest moment, a soon-to-be slippery sludge, until it's all reborn again.