On a train north, the landscape as bitter and biting as hops. Winter’s spice is in its edge, its intoxication in its long, dark ferment.
The day leavens with light, a biting light that fills the sky. But the wind is sharp, sharper than knives, and the day ends raw and cold.
Granular snow fills the asphalt’s cracks and the sun is stark light without warmth. The air scythes at my cheeks and sears my lungs.
The day is fiercely cold, achingly bright. The moon sits above the trees, slicing a bone-white curve out of the blue afternoon.
The cold is a mouth full of teeth like sharp fingers, slipping through each barrier of buttons and zippers, pinching and nipping the skin.
Sun on snow, both brilliant, both glittering. The cold, and the blue, blue sky of winter.
The cold caresses our shoulders and draws thin fingers along our necks. Outside, spring rain turns the concrete a darker shade of gray.