The cold, for any length of time, often leaves me sad and withdrawn.

We are no stranger to these late night snow falls. Even so, it is with a child's wonder that I watch as tomorrow's stark white glittering fields fall from the sky. If not for the scattered ambience of street lights, there would be only a dark and beautiful midnight. Instead, there are a thousand tiny snowflakes flitting in and out of the light - a million frantic fire flies struggling to see who might reach the ground first. There is a way that a bitterly cold winter night will hold onto the day here, between the earth and sky a warm orange glow - the sort that seems a work of the sun, no other.

A love affair with the moon, most certainly. This is what I have convinced myself to be the sun's excuse to linger. And why shouldn't anyone love its pale blue light. It is on nights like these I think, I would scrawl amorous letters to the man who lives there, inside the moon - ask him if he might have me and my shadow.

The low snow caps that form along a window ledge in the winter - the ice that spreads itself thin between the tiny squares of the windows screen. The solitary fly that apppears in a high corner one day, drawn towards the heat. I'd always wondered at its purpose, its presence at all. I watched the first winter fly crawl stiffly, stubbornly, very near the ceiling. I supposed I should have known its message all along.


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