My feet tentatively feel the cold sharp needles and frosted dirt, and despite the frigid air, there is a part of me that longs to walk barefoot over to the cold campfire. I am briefly frozen in the indecision, then chose to throw logic to the wind that tickles my cheeks. I walk, feet stinging on the cold ground, my arms clumsily filled with my boots and layers of clothes to the fire pit. I sit on one of the logs as I pull on my boots, my hands shaking from the thrill of acting like a child as well as from the bitter cold. Once dressed, I look up at the sky that will slowly turn a bright blue in just a bit. I can still see Orion's belt, and though the sky is still a deep navy, the last bits of the Milk Way have been swallowed up by the soon to be seen sun. It is her way of whispering that she is almost here, dancing just behind the mountain range. I don't want more light just yet, I don't want the sun to come up and wake the others. I just want to be here, in the quiet, here sitting, here, with the ache of the cold wood finding its way into my skin.