Over there, the 51e parallel stands humbly, like a great door always open. There is no need for a lock in the immensity of this kingdom, that of black spruce, larch and rock.
At the end of autumn, winter is already well anchored there, as if it ignored conventions, as if the Gregorian calendar had lapsed in these lands, because the tree simply does not think like men. The stump of the fir is buried for at least the next five months. It is at the top that the burden falls to face the high winds, to support the thick layer of snow, the often fatal weight of the ice.
Wildlife is changing. The hare turns white to deceive the fox, in vain. The tits, these troubadours of the cold, swell to warm up, roaming the woods all year round, approaching us when the whiteness sets in, hoping for a few grains brought to our chilly hands.
The bear nestles in his apartments. Like an asphalt maker, he will only resume his work when he can, when hunger abruptly pulls him out of his hiding place.
We carry this flora and fauna within us, each in our own way, fiercely and cruelly at times, as nature can be.
There may not be any truth here (and that’s good), but there are some rather reassuring, benevolent certainties, one of which should make us happy: when winter arrives, it’s here. opportunity to open our eyes wide, to feel the cold on our skin, to warm our house, our feet which thaw, our cheeks which speak to each other, they bear witness to where we come from.
A contemporary adage goes: “A Quebecer is a Frenchman who has passed through 400 winters. I don’t like the formula, it lacks taste, does it? It is time to tell ourselves that we are a slightly more original race of people. Why shouldn’t we be “this people who don’t wait for spring.” These people who, like tits, dance madly with the cold ”!