Small Stone, January 13

I was hoping for fluffy, Frosty the Snowman flakes, but what we've got is ice-powder, painted down between the bricks with a fierce wind-brush. Yesterday's puddles are today's miniature ice rinks for the few leaves and twigs that haven't already frozen to the sidewalk. In a single blast of wind, I feel the coffee cup in my hand go cold. I think of horses on mornings like this, of the warm spot between neck and mane, of the ice that clings to the sides of the bucket after I've chopped down through the middle, and the first thirsty sound the horses make when they drink what I've dug out for them. Last night I dreamt of a tack shop, of a floor to ceiling display of halters and gleaming leather bridles. Then you came and opened the door. You led me away.