Raw Nature

Migod it's cold and although
I'm adequately garbed in boots
and hooded warm jacket, fingers
secured in awkward mittens,
the wind gusts that snow
in icy bursts into my
unsheltered face, icy flakes
clinging to eyelids, my
fiercely burning cheeks,
slyly seeking out entry points
as the cold creeps its menacing
fingers through the jacket wall
chilling my chest, stirring the
marrow of my bones.  How
ill-suited we creatures are
for exposure to raw nature in its
blasted extremes.  How did we
ever manage to endure her
savagery from the primeval
to the present, when tiny tender
creatures like birds survive
unadorned and unprotected by
unnatural additions to their
genetic inheritance, while we
cower and just barely manage
our environment, manipulating
it for our survival never hesitating 
to tread on nature's prerogatives.