The tablet of white snow, and the pine. Sand and salt on the path to the bus stop, scarf wound tightly, small mittens packing handfuls of artillery, cold. Water slushing to solid in the lake.
Holding hands, peering through foggy windows, into the churning homogeny, winter’s monochrome—but for the pinpoints of colored lights. Strung on trees and eaves, tiny warmths sharing space with icicles. Precarious winter. Glinting brightness, then the soft black deepens, and we sleep.