The kind of cold that squeaks underfoot

This morning was bone-cold, bitter-cold, utter cold, frigid, frosty, frozen.  Beyond crisp, beyond brisk – crunchy, crackly, creaky cold.  So cold that there was a sense of traction on the icy ground, yesterday’s slickness (which culminated in an unanticipated and even more poorly executed surfing maneuver on a downhill patch of snow-covered ice, nearing a full split with arms outstretched in an attempt to maintain some semblance of upright posture which was ultimately successful though also successful in reminding me that I’m not getting any younger when I woke up with the sore legs to prove it) evaporated into the arid air.

Pale pink is the predominant color of winter morning skies, stark.  Winter mornings make me think of crows, all cawing and inky and bleak.  But too in the bleakness, winter mornings hold a sense of peace, of calm, of unending possibility.  I’m always slightly disappointed when the harsh sun and blue sky reality break through, wishing for just a few more moments to revel in the magic of the in-between.

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