The Warmth of It
The sky is the color of rainwater on a dust-smeared windowpane. It makes the pristine snow beneath stand out all the more brightly. The cold, out there, is the kind that gets inside. It shivers at the core.
Friday, and wind moves bare branches. Birds flitter and hop, looking for seed. Traffic on the Parkway sounds exhausted, shuffling toward the snow-mounded weekend.
Time is compressing around the coming holidays, moments growing scarce.
I woke early, after fitful sleep. My body carries an enduring coolness today that I hope to work out by heating up with exercise. Soon.
I am imagining the disc of the sun. The warmth of it.
On the clock, the second hand ticks circles.
Almost three, and the light has not changed since morning.