Tasting the Wisconsin Breeze

Wisconsin smells like cold crushed pine needles and damp limestone, and I hear water rushing somewhere like an oversized bathtub! You wanted a report, so I hauled my limbs out through the cracked screen door and latched straight onto the cedar railing. The breeze smacked my face with forty invisible mittens. Chilly! My hands clamped tight around the rough timber post—no suspicious primates detected in the canopy, perimeter secure, though a pinecone nearly ambushed my toe. The air hums with river mist and resin. It is cold, jagged, and full of glorious splinters.