The hoarse cough of someone scraping ice off of concrete and a slow, melting drip from the eaves. 30°, dark and full of muffled echoes.
The metamorphosed snow on the cemetery grounds is akin to ice. It glitters in the sun like diamonds, crunches underfoot like bones.
Cold is a slow fire creeping up through the floor. Feet numb, I go outside. The sun’s a joke. I stumble along, breathing ice.