An amassment of portent gestures; Chinook panting warm dangers, a foehn pneuma, genially clement, whispering under the door. Weathers I cannot I predict, whether I cannot consent. The snow eater descends, adiabatic, fire-prone. Glancing at the kindling, I tuck the matches into my coat pocket, reminding them of this hollow safety. I heed gingerly, carrying water to the sparks, assuring them an audience of lesser smolder. This ghost of thermal conductivity, an inimical coupling.