The pockets of winter are thoroughly dependable, quickly warmed and completely if not secretly ours. How expeditiously and unconsciously we the soft-fleshy-fragile creatures of habit have come to depend on them. Most often seen at the door, in a last minute pack—the preparations of our external winter endeavors: like Shackleton going out for milk. Deep and best without holes are the cavities of our multi-marsupial fake fur. How I will miss those places when the temperatures rise and I shed down to my near pocketless layer.
