Bright cold days have made people happy, including me. We know not to trust them–they will not stay. The air bites but is not crisp. It has been too still, and a stagnant air advisory has hung over us, thick and invisible. Everything is still.
Normal Seattle winter mornings are dark as a wet paper bag, clinging and vague, the day unsure how to move. These mornings have been brilliant, jeweled, startling. Light wakes me up early like in summer and everything white glows.
Thursday was the coldest: stark and clean-lit. All night the world has been open to space, all the heat radiating up and away. For the first time roofs are glazed with frost, the grass solid with it. Cars skitter at stopsigns and around curves. It is the kind of morning I remember out of youngest childhood: a TV on to morning news, mom moving slowly and glazed, coffee perking, venturing out imminent. In the now people shuffle by in thick coats, the kind not designed for rain.
Frost is ephemeral and instant. It comes from nowhere and returns there. I always stop to look at it, to touch its white softness and feel the sharp hinge of water’s forms.