Wooden pencil and a folded card tucked in two are held in my hands.
Who knows what will fill the page? I look for something to inspire.
Suddenly, I'm writing with fingers so cold they chap and run red in the frosted air.

Dark outlines of fir trees in the park.

The hollow breaking noise from banks of melting snow.

Debris pulse under thin ice at my steps, pulling and pushing away, bubbles steaming past each point.

Frosted ice along the sidewalks' edges crack satisfyingly when I tap them with DELIBERATE steps!

The view beneath a pine tree with criss crossed branches and the thin wired commotion of needles.

Look! The sky is very pink now.




I climb a tree and watch the sun.


Whoever heard of an ordinary morning?