Still

The world is still when it’s below zero. Vibrant. Alive like a wire. Everything is crisp. Wide awake. The steam from furnaces curl out of pipes in every roof in the neighborhood and makes it seem like I am living in a small village with everyone cooking breakfast over open fires.

The world is white with snow unifying the land. Snow coats the road and is piled in long rows on the sides. Snow covers the rooftops and mailboxes. Bare tree trunks and branches brush black strokes across the land’s white canvas. When a male cardinal flies up to the feeder, its red seems impossibly rich and bright.

Winter days are often gray, but on those few mornings when dawn rises clear and cold, the sun sends rays that make the land glow pink or yellow for a few minutes. The world sparkles as if crystalline. My boots crunch on the glittering, crisp snow and echoes as I follow the cuneiform tracks of birds to see where they go.

I shiver outside in thick coat and gloves until I adjust to the stillness of movement, the quiet, the beautiful cold.