February Morning

Winter thaw – last weekend. Now, sparkling drops coat my car’s rusted body. I attack – a towel, a broom, blue ice scraper. My fingers turn red, hair falls flat. Wet. Cold. My car won’t wake up. I love mornings like this – icicles in my lungs, cold bubbles in my bloodstream. Quiet, pure, cold. Telephone lines, fire hydrants: a landscape. It is still morning. The snow falls in my eyes; my car awakes from his stupor. I crouch inside his warm metal case, drive off blindly into the snow.