There are two degrees out right now, one for Duncan and one for me, and while we're pretty good at sharing, it seems as though there should be more. One is not nearly enough, not for my face and ever-expanding forehead or the pale skin at my wrists which my gloves don't quite cover. One is not enough for Duncan's poor feet and the soft warm places behind and under his pads, which fill with the sharp powder which descended on us mere moments before the temperatures plummeted. Still, we plodded through the snow around the complex, opting away from the park and Bowles, which is a dangerous enough street to cross without the added delight of ice and slush and Colorado's shockingly inept drivers. There was no silence in our walk. Packed frozen snow with a whispering layer of powder resting above it is a loud thing, crunching and cracking with each step, making the glittering and twinkling noises normally reserved for films as it wafted around my boots like sand. It was a short walk and more than once I had to run my finger around Dunc's paws so he could step down, but even in the cold and cacophonous silence we were sharing, not just the two paltry degrees, but time and memory.