It occurs to him the seasons left are now countable, a comprehendible number. Fifty eight winters have passed. This one not more remarkable than most but for the loss of his sense of immortality. About time some might say, but really, there are no rules for this. Some just come to it later than others. There are maybe twelve, maybe twenty winters left, his family history and lifestyle would say not more. So his future, now clearly outlined in red, makes the day into something other than it began. No more days wasted in the blue haze of lost minutes. No more gray weeks passing by in the unfiltered rush of drifting hours. Not another month spent on squandered days, wandering aimless through the dim light of strayed time. But what to do with it now? In the moment he can find nothing so satisfying as the fire he has built, snow draping the birches, and a deep sense of gratitude for one more winter morning.