I’m new to this sub and writing. Could you offer some critique on this snippet?

I was breaking up deadfall a cedar had dropped when a cold like no other came down from the northern storm. I needed a fire, but the wind gave me hell. The snow was ankle-deep, numbing my feet enough for me to stop caring. So I started to look for a walking stick. I was going to need something to lean on.

Why didn’t I just ride the mule? I’m old enough to know how far I’ve gone. Old enough to know better. What’s forbidden is forbidden, so I loaded the mule with broken branches. Enough to see us through to Arthur’s Crater.

The good news, the wind was at my back, pushing me out of the cedars. My heading was west, into the waste and I had a sinking feeling in my gut. Not hunger. Desperation. I wanted to believe that they could hear.

This damn ritual had me out there all alone. There used to be six of us. It made more sense then. Who would see me if I had fallen? Who would be my Witness? Who would carry last words to the ones who can’t hear? What is it with this ritual? If they can hear me, they should be able to hear you too.

How far is too far? Do the moons know? They must. Their paths are consistent. The red sets. The white rises. Three moons have circled this world for generations and we still fight about what they mean.

I’ve never been one for gods or monsters. And I still have too many damn questions. Either way, something made me walk. Something had turned the world slowly under my feet.

Who would believe me? What I saw was real and there are no words for what I felt. Who would believe me if I told them, time can stand still, and dreamers aren’t just dreaming.