It's ColdIt is very cold here. It is the kind of cold immortalized in paintings, picturesque, spread with sharp shadows under the low sun and mantles of snow. The streets are empty. Through the window, one can search for the chimney pots on other houses, thinly smudging the sky like one's own. The fire in the hearth is close but warm, and pleasures taken turn inward, toward the wine and the cheese.
Pressed against the window, the breath makes clouds to be wiped at with sleeves. The obstruction is cumulative: soon the rime will crisp up so that the world outside is netted by the winter on the window. The children run to get napkins to fight it off, but they will be going to bed soon.
It is a clean cold, here, a punctuation on living that calls one out the door to spite the risks. In the day under the cold the skies were lonely and blue, fearfully empty of cloud. At night, the cold marshals the air to make it stand clear and crisp. It is so clear that on tip toe one could touch the moon to crack it. The stars mute their laughter, but shine the brighter. The dogs keep still.
It is very cold.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.