Tuesday, December 14
Frost
A soft frost this morning, the car windows covered in cross-hatched tracings, looking like Frankenstein scars or architectural drawings of ancient ruins. The lines of frost look green on the auto glass, murky ice and when the scraper lifts them they disappear easily into white snow, brushed away with a flick. The rear window in the mirror looks like a children's drawing, a three-year-old's idea of sky, scribbled into totality. The sky is cloud free, ice blue, the sun an unseen white spot on the eastern horizon behind the rows and rows of suburban houses, our wooden treetops yellow in the glow of dawn.
