Changing Seasons

The wind off Hudson Bay is still sharp, still heavy with salt and cold, but something is shifting. You can feel it more than see it at first — a quiet tension in the land, like it’s exhaling after months of holding still. Standing on the coast near Arviat, everything looks frozen at a glance. The sea ice stretches far into the horizon, and the sky hangs low, colorless, offering no clear sign of change. But it’s there, in the details.

Kneeling near the ground, the textures tell a different story. The tundra is alive with contrast — leathery red leaves curled tight from winter, soft yellow lichen tangled in between, and small, wiry stems beginning to push upward again. Everything is damp, coated in a thin crust of frost that’s starting to melt around the edges. You run your hand across the surface of the rock and feel the grit of thawing moss and sand. It’s not warm, but it’s no longer locked in ice.

This is what the return of spring looks like here. No sudden bloom, no explosion of green. Just small, persistent things refusing to give in. You can’t help but respect it — this slow reawakening, shaped by a long memory of harsh seasons. People here know this rhythm too. It’s in the way they talk about the land — not as something to conquer or wait on, but something to watch, listen to, and move with.

Out across the shoreline, the snow has thinned. Meltwater trickles between ridges, and the cracks in the ice echo faintly underfoot. You notice how the light hits differently now, even through cloud. It’s angled. It stays a little longer each day. The horizon is still grey, still cold — but no longer still.

For those who live here, this isn’t just weather. It’s a turning point. A reminder that no matter how long the winter lasts, it eventually gives way — not all at once, but piece by piece. And in that slow return, there’s something deeply grounding. The kind of change that doesn’t need to announce itself to be felt.