Hardhat Zone

With a ratchet and a clatter, the brass squirrels retreated into their nests, making way for silver-plated owl-clocks. Overhead, there was a distant roar as a perfect V of missiles rocketed south for the winter. The streets were nearly bare as the last of the flesh-and-blood denizens scrambled for shelter.

The bells tolled, and the gears turned. "Winter is coming!" the birds called. "Winter is coming!"

All along the street, the lantern-posts creaked, rusty with months of disuse. One by one, the grips opened, releasing the glimmering leaves to drop to the streets with the clang of metal on metal.

Snowfall in the Late December

It starts when the last flakes fall. A slight depression in the fluffy, white surface spreads out, branches, forms a rough cross. Then sweeping motions, back and forth, spreading the limbs into wings and a skirt.

Snow angels.

Ginny lay in one once, trying to help it along. We don't do that anymore. Instead, we watch them from the kitchen table as they blossom one by one on the lawn.

"I wonder what it's like," Lise says. "Being out there, I mean."

"Cold," I say. "Lonely."

The oven pings as it cools. We sip our cocoa and wait for spring.