The moon is bright on this cold pale night. The old International Harvester dumptruck outside my door stares vacantly like an old old man, his dirty white paint made ancient and ethereal by the pearlescence of the frost. A fog of minute ice crystals has passed, leaving all a bit less real, a bit less here. The frost is the only real thing, and the shapes beneath just memories.
The air bites, but gently. Not warmed, but softened by the full moon, and the velvet frost feels smooth and sensual on the curved metal of the truck. The sharpness of the light makes a fast hard shadow of some bird or bat flying above, it flys across a blurry fuzz of frozen grass, too sharp, too clear, too fast.
A sea of fog stretches out across the fields, or perhaps it is crystal clear and the pale haze is frosted ground, frosted trees, frosted space. But for the sharpness of the light, I would think my eyes frosted over as well. It is comfortable, comforting, this cold obscurity. It glistens from a million tiny facets, too delicate to survive my touch, but hard and adament as stone. A good night, if one wished, to lay in the sharp but giving grass and sleep into a cold death.I share this only with the moon tonight. It is enough.
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