"January" has a formal, royal sound to it, appropriate for the month that precedes all others, the month named for the Roman god Janus.  Guardian of the gates of heaven, he was the two-faced god who looked ahead and behind, into the future and into the past, without turning his head. January is much the same today, the closest we have to a mountaintop among the months, a manmade promontory on the calendar where we catch our breath and take stock before plunging into the wilderness once again.  But Janus' two faces also remind us of intentions  forgotten, promises broken and vows gone unkept, of the eternal conflict between what we say and what we do that is the inevitable result of the pressure to resolve, to forgo and to sacrifice that are the rituals of the New Year's celebration.

There is an even more sinister shadow cast by two-faced Janus, at least around these parts, for January, despite all its pomp and ceremony, lives buried in the tomb of Winter.  The glowing warmth of festival lights seems years away once Winter stiffens his frigid grip and begins his lengthy siege.  The ground first grows hard and unforgiving; then, hidden beneath a mantle of ice, adds treachery to its vices. The cold becomes an ache that settles into our bones, the wind a razor's edge that cuts cruelly and constantly. Branches creak and moan like arthritic limbs, a walk from driveway to door is a shivering torture, and whatever thawmay appear is merely a tease, a trick meant to lull us into unawareness so that Winter, leanand gray and hungry, can pounce on us once more.

The Romans, warmed by Mediterranean breezes, untested by the darkness and the cold,enamored of pageantry, named January after a god. But the Anglo-Saxons knew this month for the cold killer it was: they named it for the killer that roamed their villages during its deep and desperate nights. They called it Wulf-Monath, the month of the wolf.

Listen.  You can hear it howling already.