Thursday, November 8, 2012


The drizzle and mist of the evening before had hardened overnight into a fragile sheath of ice over every twig, every blade of grass, and the rotting pumpkin in the garden. And when the sunshine flowed over the hills east of the house, flooding the valley with warmth and radiance, the world stood transformed.  In that fragile time, when sun and ice coexisted, there was a dazzling brilliance that hung about everything. It was captivating in its transience and fragility, arresting in its beauty. The mind marveled at the great thoroughess with which the ice etched even the smallest details of creation. From the window above the kitchen sink I gazed appreciatively on the crystal trees which stood in ranks, climbing the hills to welcome the rising sun. I stepped outside and my breath curled away from my mouth. The silver field also seemed to breathe as the sun made it steam. Before my eyes wispy tendrils of vapor rose above the hip-high grass and gathered in the low places, as the sun transformed the silver field into its own golden likeness.

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