In the Dead of Winter

In the dead of winter, as the melted snow turns to ice, it is so cold the rocks have teeth and the logs perched above the river dangle long locks of icicle hair in front of their faces like teenagers hiding their eyes from the world. As the Earth’s numb breath passes over, even the canal covers itself with a single opaque sheet etched with crystal veins and ripples frozen in place that catch and distort the reflections of the trees in the faded light like an old leaded window. Nothing escapes its bite. It blows its bitterness across the wide water and chomps at the edges of the icy shore, shattering it into thousands of glistening shards that rhythmically clink together like chandeliers swaying in an empty room with open windows.