This morning. This morning: snow gessoed the world, swirled thick through the trees. Their branches, gray at the base, disappear into white the farther your eye follows them from the trunk. Below, the lawn is chalked with snow, thick and uniform. It tops the fence and piles on the power lines, a line of white on the line of black, the black drooping a miniscule amount more. The snow piles even on last summer’s tomato cages, stuck haphazardly in the ground, the white perched even two inches above the horizontal metal wire, casually ignoring gravity.
Icicles droop irregularly off the bottom of the deck and I can see them from the ground-level window of my office. As I watch, the gray sky bends to a zinc-white.
Inside, the furnace pumps, the hum and heat of air that I can feel on the left side of my face. The only noise the furnace and my pen. Outside is silent. To be awake, to see this day birthed: the world is a far greater miracle than we ever give it credit.
Pay attention, the morning says, as it does again and again, and will again in 24 hours. If you do not, the morning may as well not even happen.