Cold. White. Snow blasting across an endless, eerie desert of water. Here was a shape jutting out of the flat. It was ordinary, commonplace on the frozen ocean, yet uniquely sharp and rounded. It was snowy white, and translucently blue, both at the same time. The windward face resembled weathered skin, scratched, wrinkled, tough. Around the curve, on both sides, it was aerodynamic and smooth, and the deep blue characteristic of slightly impure ice. Then, abruptly, the ice ended, replaced by hard-packed snow, drifting off the leeward side. About a fifth of the way up this snowdrift three square blocks of snow surrounded a tiny hole.

Something moved. A grating sound could be heard from within, scraping gently at some confining wall. Outside, the wind lightened its fury, listening to the struggle within. The grating became more and more distinct, and then stopped. The cold white light of the Arctic struggled to get through the snow, curious to find the creator of the sounds.

Then, a rubber sole broke through the packed layer, right in the bottom of the hole surrounded by the ice blocks. The wind, surprised to find a living entity disturbing his retreat, dropped the snow it was carrying, and held its breath in anticipation. The boot disappeared, replaced by two blue nylon gloves pulling snow, widening the hole, revealing a cave. The Arctic Light danced around inside, joyfully claiming more space. It jumped in and around a small red rucksack, bounced through a stack of aluminum foil and plastic in the back corner, and flashed into the eyes of a man.

The man stuck his head through the opening and surveyed the surroundings. "At last," he mumbled, to nobody in particular.

"What?" asked the wind, but the man was not listening.

He pulled the rucksack behind him out the hole. He unzipped it, poked around and pulled out a foil-wrapped tray. "Chicken or Beef?" he asked, of nobody in particular. Chuckling, he unwrapped it, saying "Looks like chicken." He picked up the solid chunk and knawed at it. He proceeded to the peas, which were one small frozen mass. A handful of snow completed his meal.

He reached in to his chest pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He put one in his mouth, and pulled out his lighter. But he could not get his thumb to move fast enough to strike a flame. "Damn!" he exclaimed, to nobody in particular.

The wind, fascinated, asked "What's the problem?" But the man said nothing. He held the lighter in his left hand, and started hitting it with the right.

"Whisk, whisk," said the lighter.

"Damn!" said the man, to nobody in particular.

"What's the problem?" whispered the wind.

The Arctic Light stood idly by.

"Whitch!" said the lighter. Wasting no time, the man pulled on his cigarette, steadied his shaking hands, and lit the cigarette.

"Why?" said the wind. But the man did not hear. He zipped the rucksack, slung it across his back, looked at a shiny silver band on his wrist, found the brightest part of the Arctic Light, and started walking.

The wind watched the man for a while. Then it zipped over to the jutting ice, and picked up the plastic and aluminum. It juggled it, flipping it end over end, and started playing games with it. The tray skidded along, flying and bouncing away from the man, twirling over and over. The wind thought this was great fun. What a vacation! It usually came up here and had nothing to push around but snow, as a break from battering shacks in Puerto Rico, or sending up walls of water, flying across the Pacific. It was not often that the wind could relax and play with just one toy.

Gleefully, the wind pushed its toy many miles, through rough ice, and smooth patches, right up to a sheet of metal that protruded from a snowdrift. Ah! The wind had forgotten about this! There was the slightly rounded aluminum side, filled with clear holes that the wind could not go through. So it went under the end, filtering through snowcovered seats strewn all around, most containing frozen bodies.

But poking through the wreckage, the wind could find no further sign of activity. It got bored, and decided to go visit the man again.

The wind lept up into the sky, and sped around in a great circle. It passed over the ice, over a lead of open water, over some more ice, up across the beach, over a cliff, past frozen, snow covered lakes, to the foothills of some mighty mountains. It took some running steps off the sides of the mountains, and whizzed back, across the frozen lakes, to the beach, through some buildings, back over the ice, across the open water, to the other mass of ice. It paused briefly, then found the man.

He stood there, at the edge of the water, gnawing at his last meal. The Arctic light brought him the far edge of the ice, the bluffs, the metal radio tower that indicated civilization.

"There must be a way," he said, to nobody in particular.

"There is no way," said the wind.

"After all this distance," said the man, to nobody in particular.

"You've come no distance," said the wind.

"They must know I'm here," said the man, to nobody in particular.

"I know you're here," said the wind.

"I'm tired," said the man. "I'm cold."

"Sleep," said the wind. "I'll cover you."

"I must fight!" said the man. "I'm so close! Give me a raft!"

"Come with me," said the wind. "Come, explore the corners of the world, see sights you've never dreamed. Join me in eternal play."

"But if I do, what will become of my wife?" asked the man. "How will my Susie grow up, without her father?

"Do not worry about your family. You will join mine, as they will when it's their time."

"I feel warm," said the man.

"Let me cover you," said the wind.