In January, the sun barely melts the frost in the morning. The high reaches no more then forty degrees Fahrenheit. The clouds snuggle closer to the earth, and the sun sets further towards the Southwest. Every exhalation is a warm visible steam jetting from the nostrils of creatures able to survive the hostility of the frigid desert. At night, under the moon, groups of Mule Deer bundle together and bed down beneath cottonwoods, near the farm communities. Driving steadily at night, on a frontage road, you drive no faster then thirty to avoid bouncing a buck. Locals go spotlighting in the middle of the night.
The days are so short with barely the chance to get anything done. The farmer barely has enough time to finish the chores before returning to the house to stoke the fire, to chop the wood, and feed the chickens. The old farmer or rancher, kicks off his smelly, snuggly boots, and flips on the television.
As one watches the flames dancing in the stove, they hear the chilling winds beat the house outside. A blizzard is on the way. The mother cat gave birth to six kittens just the other night. My grandmother used her padded arm for the mother cat to grip while she was in labor. Just like a human, she wanted every body close by to show support, especially grandmother. Now the mother cat follows grandma all around the house.
January is spent in the house hugging the stove. Unless you dress up in long johns and heavy flannel cloths, and a warm heavy wool hat. Then you can venture out into the frigid.