The low tonight is twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit. There’s something about the air when the temperature is below thirty degrees. It’s so clear and fine. If anything moved too quickly, the air around it would instantly depose to glass and shatter. The wind’s talons, weaving between the molecules of crystalline vapor, slash at every inch of exposed skin. The landscape is sharp as light carefully carves shapes and shadows. The smell of every bygone winter floods the olfactory cortex evoking the good, the great, and grief. Each and every sound feels close. Is the crack of the branch at the tree line an animal? Or is it a tree surrendering a limb to the march of time? A deep breath through barely parted, chapped lips stings the throat as hot tears teeter on the cusp of the lower eyelid. The dry, frigid breath of nature forces a blink as the molten tears roll down. It is real. It is temporary. It is a lesson.
Sparks 