Cold, cold, cold

The winter light through our bedroom window woke me. Eight degrees outside. I didn't want to get out of bed.

But I did, started the coffee, and went to the back door to let in the clamoring dogs, who'd been let out an hour before. There was the moon, like an ice crystal, far above the trees, unmelting in a frozen blue sky.



I remembered a short poem I'd jotted into a notebook years ago when we were camping in the Cumberland Mountains area.


what’s underneath thrusts
out in bluffs or overhangs

or huddles in caves where
the first hunters took shelter,

waking at dawn to the curve
of light under the stone lid.





Tonight the low is supposed to be six degrees!