Everything exists in shades of blue: brittle and cold, deep and unforgiving. Layers of ice hang from shingles, hang in the air. But a fire kindles below the horizon and the flames are melting a hole in the sky. Something's getting in. I watch from the window to see what might materialize.
Slowly a bonfire separates from the low, licking blaze and the sun erupts orange above the bare treetops. Hope singes the morning.
I lift my nose to sniff the woodsmoke curling from the neighbor's chimney. The furnace kicks on with a click and a whoosh. The air is dry and full of static. I reach out out to warm my hands in the ascending glow, rubbing my palms together. My fingertips knock against the window glass, a block of ice.