This morning I walked about the neighborhood, enjoying the icy world that’s descended on us for the past few days. There hasn’t been much precipitation, but how quiet and still everything seems when encased in ice.
On the trail, all I heard was the sound of my feet crunching through the sheet of ice that formed over the grass. Around me everything shimmered, grey and wonderful.
I walked off the trail into a sort of meadow that I’d never noticed before and found myself surrounded by trees that seemed more ominous than they do on a summer day.
But it’s the smaller things that really beg for attention, the way the ice surrounding a twig catches the grey sky.
Or the prickly pears with each spine covered in a crystalline sheath.
Being cold outside has become such a foreign sensation to me that it’s utterly thrilling, but the best part is, of course, coming home to a bowl of soup.