Cold Feet

by Bob Carlton

          Rain fell. Ice formed. Trees fell. It was a dynamic equation, balanced by the pitiless fact of temperature. Freezing fog crept in during the night, kissing what remained upright with death. Crunching my way through a glassy crust, I found brittleness had become a new attribute of formerly supple objects.

          This was not a night for plots or plans. It was barely a night for breathing. I would usually stop and wait for you here, hatching fantasies I would later alter to accommodate your actual appearance. I doubt you ever saw me.

But tonight, my breath dances in that way that clouds will, announcing my presence and pinpointing my exact location. You are doubtfully abroad tonight in any case. The honeyed warmth of your features could not stand up under these conditions. You are better off indoors, for many reasons. I fear I may be one of them.

Bob Carlton <www.bobcarlton3.weebly.com> lives and works in Garland, TX.