Blue heart, because that is the color your fingers turn somewhere around mile marker 47 in January when the wind comes off the plains sideways and your truck door freezes shut. You do not love this place in spite of the cold. You love it because the cold filters out the weak. Forty below is not a weather event here, it is a personality test, and most of the country fails it.
Blue is also the sky, which is admittedly enormous, and the mood you get in late March when winter is still happening for its fourth encore and you are rationing the last of the huckleberries from the freezer. Wear it while you pretend to fly fish, while you glare at out of state plates, or while you explain to relatives that no, you cannot just drive over for dinner, it is five hours.
Soft, broken in from the jump, and built to take a beating from wind, woodsmoke, and questionable life choices. The kind of thing that becomes your default layer until it falls apart.
