Twenty degrees below freezing is just a number until you are walking in it. I should say trudging through it.
My labored breathing roars forth clouds of vapor. My forehead aches because the wind is meanspirited. I'd tell the wind to quit, but the teeth in my mouth are so cold they hurt.
My boots stamp out a petulant response. I clap my mittened hands for winter's performance of brutal strength and also beauty.
Beauty?
Yes, beauty because my eyes aren't frozen shut. I can see the diamond glitter sparkling on the branches and tips of grass. And the sun flashes sharp stabs of color in shapes through the trees, in the woods. Rays of light, here and there, are accompanied by sound or I dare to say music, for the grass crunches when I step and the ice in the puddles crash like cymbals, in this winter orchestra of cold.
Not an orchestra, like in symphony hall. Rather more like a marching band in the parade of winter. It's showing off all its delights in a performance of twenty degrees below freezing.
No comments:
Post a Comment