The moon was like a child’s smile; lop-sided and sheepish. Both innocent and mischievous.
They were a mass, crouched and bent against the cold. Babes on the inside, then the thin and the mothers, then the fat and the old and finally the men and the dogs, who faced outward into the blackness.
The wind did not blow but instead slowly crept into openings in furs and skins, biting eyes and lips with a thick coat of frost.
An old bitch was the first one to notice. She lay by the side of The Elder and upon hearing her growl, he signaled alarm to the rest of the warriors.
The warriors fell out of formation and approached the elder and his old dog. Again the dog growled and looked up at the sky. The warriors copied her, searching for the danger. The small bits of their exposed skin began to feel the wetness of what would surely be another long, hard ice storm.
They sighed.
The dog barked. The Elder extended a bare hand and laughed. The wetness was warm.
The age of ice was over.
The sky was melting.