Waking to the glisten of sunshine refracted in the icicles on the eaves, I’m up before her to stoke the fire in the stove and set some water to boil for coffee and breakfast. Our cabin at the tree line is snow packed, hidden almost completely up to the rooftop. We’ll spend our entire day together in this room, under a blanket, talking and making love and dozing in and out of sleep. Once she’s awake, she’ll pick up her guitar and sing to me Neil Young, Bob Dylan and songs she’s written on her own. The wooden walls will capture her voice and sing back to us with their creaks and winter aches. I’ll read my Bible aloud, starting over with the book of Genesis, and we’ll ponder how things began, our own natures, and we’ll talk about how we never want to come back down the mountain, not even after the spring melt.