frostbitten

Raked over by a harsh wind all night, our pond ice is chewed up in the
teeth of the cold – ruptured, cracked and splintered, frozen and
refrozen. It’s 4 degrees at dawn. The newspaper’s plastic bag
crinkles like tissue paper.

The sun comes, but doesn’t warm. Thin clouds slide quickly over us
like ice on water. A faint blue sky shimmers above, beyond the ice.
Winter loosened his grip only to sink his teeth into us, and he isn’t
letting go.