The stop light and building clock, the spun glass of the tree that bends its slivered light towards the lamp mooning in its branches, less aura than bramble, less bramble than carousel at night. The tree shivers with its weight though the morning is still. Seven degrees and branches in the road everywhere cased in ice, for the trees are fragile in this. I almost hold my breath for them. And for the ice, which in every source of light is astonishing. And today they say light but no thaw: full sun, eighteen degrees.
***
But what am I about? This is looking awfully familiar.
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