Freezing

I present you a frostily embellished record of a cracklingly cold day, to cool your heart in the torrid times before us.

From Thursday, February 03, 2011, 12:22pm CT

It is freezing outside right now. Every water molecule that falls from the sky will find the temperature suitable to roll itself onto its ears and bind to its neighbors, creating polyhedral structures over the ground, more than strong enough, more than smooth enough to support even the heaviest 18 wheeler.

As such beasts race down the road, or crawl over the bridges, the ice will weep just underneath their tires. The water will not yield to their weight, but support them, staying them from the frustration of friction. Sparing friction, cars will dance a dangerous waltz.

As such beasts race down the road, or crawl over the bridges, the ice will weep just underneath their tires. The water will not yield to their weight, but support them, staying them from the frustration of friction. Sparing friction, cars will dance a dangerous waltz.

This is why I hear a buzzing behind me, as people talk of the weather. So much in tune they all are in winter time, to the rustlings and turnings of the outside world, for now at least.

Weather has always been that primordial link between us humans and them, the powers that be. We speak of it as if it is an inconvenience, or a rush, or expanding foam for a drafty conversation. It is no wonder we attribute such events to gods.

The gulf, she breathes towards us, the foggy dragon breath racing across Houston, Texas and its villages and hamlets. Every bit of that salty kiss will make slick the roads of the southeast, will layer molten glass over the leaves and branches and twigs of the trees that can somehow still stand in such weather. Mind you, if she breathes too hard, some trees may not carry the burden well, but even still will carry it better than a homoeothermic hominid. Today hoar-frost is death traveling at a blizzard’s pace. That frost used to cover the beards of our boreal progenitors and it bore them less ache. Maybe some honey-mead blood still oozes through the veins of more northern democrats and republicans. Maybe they drink just enough coffee to keep them mobile.

My wife is out in this weather, somewhere near the Attoyac river basin, off a bridge on state highway 21. I pray that she is doing well, and that she is safe. Her professor took the class out there to measure the speed at which the cold river moved. Perhaps he did not make her go in the water, I can only hope so. Her hate of the cold is deep.

One day I hope I can give my winter and summer goddess all the warmth she will ever need. May my heart be furnace enough.