Despite the bite of the wind on his face, he finds himself to be un-phased. Perhaps mostly un-phased -- having ignored the frost forming on the scarf he wears -- which had begun to rub his nose raw. He wrinkles his nose and decides to stop and adjust it.
Either way, his mind was elsewhere.
Turning his back to the wind, he carefully removes from his face the worn-thin woolen scarf -- a gift from his mother. Scraping from it the glistening crystals of ice that had long been irritating his skin and discarding of this ice on the forest floor below.
Perhaps they will be happier there, lost amongst the other fallen snowflakes.
He quickly replaces the scarf, before turning back into the wind, and marching on -- once again -- through the snow, piled knee high beneath him.