The bowl of milk

No picture is needed today, only an image conjured up in your mind; you are stuck inside a bowl of milk. This is no ordinary bowl, otherwise, you could not fit into it, nor is it really the liquid milk. Perhaps you are muffled in so many layers of clothing that despite the heat of the American South, you feel no temperature extremes at all, you have become a neutral environment, like the insides of a cooler. You are standing in a cotton field during a Storm, but are anchored down firmly. All is white. Maybe you are stuck inside a flour mill during a tornado. This is what it is like here during 40 knots of wind.
The good thing about wind storms here is that the temperature rises. Instead og being flat calm and -20F, it is windy and 20 above.
We can still walk around outside, though from what the wind sounds like, some 30 feet above the surface in a building raised on iron legs, you wouldn't think it would be possible.
I pull my hood up and secure the goggles to my face; a windshield for human beings. I put my head down and find some delineating feature on the snow to follow, be it an old Caterpillar track from the tractor, or a ski runnel, now a raised relief, or the platforms of my earlier boot prints embossed along the surface.
I mark the force of the wind against my body and the direction I wish to travel, roughly 500 feet distant. By this dead reckoning I begin my course, glancing up occasionally to check for the dim gray blur of the garage that will soon appear ahead, looming; a moth in the dark illuminated by some brief moon glow.
This weather is exciting, though it prevents us from doing the chores we need to tend to outside, it allows for the human element to feel, in just 500 short feet, the likes of having crossed the north Atlantic on foot.
Well, OK that may be dramatic, still, I presume it gets the point across; life here is never dull. I wear a whistle on my parka, I carry a radio, we all keep track of each other's where abouts. I reflect upon the experience, standing still within its own being only long enough to try and understand it's gyrating mood. Long enough to feel the spindrift needling its way through my clothes. Enough to decide that there must be an awfully large kitten coming soon to lap up this milk from its ice cap sized bowl.
Reaching the safe harbor of the garage and kicking aside the powder fine drift that has formed so delicatly before the door, I enter into what seems to be the mouth of a whale. Dimly lit, membranous walls heaving and shaking as though alive, snow sliding down along the arches, like water over the back of a leviathan, I stomp off the snow and smile.