I miss the sun. I miss rain, water shushing in the ditches, running to the sea.

I miss trees. The sound of wind cracking branches, leaves bursting mint-green in spring.

I chafe against the winter clothing, that narrows my view to a fur tunnel and holds my head forward when I want to look around at the sky.

I want to nap in the afternoons, when the sky is black at three, like a bird with its head under a downy wing.

And yet, the sky is limitless and streaked with aurora borealis, twisting and writhing overhead, shaken ribbons of light.

And then, the silence feeds me and envelops me, broken only by children playing hockey in the street, ravens barking on telephone poles and dogs singing in the evening.

Time moves sluggishly, becomes meaningless. My dreams are long and convoluted, like childhood dreams and just as colourful. I thought I had stopped dreaming. I thought nothing more would ever happen to me, and yet it does. I live in the Arctic.