The cold snap has ended. A full moon adorns the clear, dark sky; Orion the Hunter shimmers overhead; and the icy snow sparkles in the light of these two celestial bodies. I've put on my Afghani pakol hat and an old Norwegian navy officer's wool coat, so I look like an out of place mujahid. To accompany me are my dogs and a Victor Sinclair Legacy cigar. My dogs bolt out of the back door, crunching through the crisp layer of ice on the snow with their paws as they bound off the deck and into the lunar illuminated backyard. I pull out a handy lighter, press the button, and, with a hiss of butane, the torch lights. The tobacco warms, blackens, then glows. A few puffs of earthy smoke and I'm well on my way. Notes of cedar and moss hit my palate as cool smoke swirl around me, aided by the constant breeze.
It's easy to think of nothing and everything when a cigar is being smoked. Time slows, mattering less. Stresses disappear or, at the very least, aren't as important for the moment. I gaze at the night sky and I realize that it's been a while since I've stopped and looked at the night sky. I'm instantly transported by my memories to night skies in the north Georgia mountains. With very little light pollution, there are many more stars than the well-lit suburbia I'm a part of now. Those nights were special, quiet, and slow. Night time goes well with a cigar, as you have to take time to savor both. The sky make me feel small, slowing further my sense of time.
My dogs want to play. I pull a stick from one of the two snowmen my wife an I built yesterday. A flick of the wrist, a crack from the stick hitting snow, and the rumble and whine from three excited dogs happen in an instant. I return to my smoke as the dogs playfully challenge one another to possess a piece of wood. The smoke is smooth as it rises from my mouth and through my beard. It's the lightest of grays without a hint of harshness. I note a smell of freshly fallen leaves and am, again, amazed at how the mind, with the sense of smell, associates very different things with the power of memory.
One dog is lying in the snow and chewing the stick. The other is enthralled by a toy Frisbee he found buried in the snow, shaking it to and fro. The third is rooting around the snowmen, finding the almonds we used for eyes and buttons. A cold and tasty treat for a smart hound!
It's time to go inside. I throw the still-lit cigar into the snow to let it expire honorably. I imagine the glowing ember hissing as the cold, frozen crystals absorb all the heat. It's too far to hear such a small and dying sound.
I make sure I lock the door.
