In winter my waking precedes the light. So I can watch for it, witness its birth. Swaddled in night clothes, I squeeze a warm little island from the nippy night air, while, nose to window, I wait.
Toward the horizon, the darkness is pierced here and there by sharp electrical insinuations, encapsulated puddles of light gently bobbing in a night sea. It’s never totally dark here, and never totally quiet.
Off in the distance a night train wails, while the nearby swish and moans of passing cars escalate and intensify.
The swirling wind cuts and bites, igniting blue sparks in recent snowflakes under fading street lights, in a macabre twisted dance.
The light crawls in, timid and sluggish allowing the fallen snow to reflect its pallid face before lifting pink and yellow cheeks to the sky. Shadows slowly fade while buildings and street signs emerge unbroken and creaking into sight.
In air that’s clear, the muted colors bloom, a monochromatic palette in gnarled unfamiliar shapes.
The skeletal trees mindlessly chatter, in an impotent clatter of bones. The whole world seems winter licked and mummified. I must turn away to get warm.
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