It is cold

In its dormancy

the street receives its icing

and a single candle lights the sky.

The birds are quiet,

fluffed in plumped up feathers

too cold for morning anthems,

too early for birding the worms

in their iron-earthed tunnels.

It is cold.

It is cold.

Yet, crisp with promise,

the ascending sun

newborn and uncrying

arcs the horizon.

Trees will begin to loose their white beards,

lawns their frosting,

and beds decamp their cocooned

sleepers

for morning ablutions.

It is cold.

It is cold.

Cold tests the fingers

as a chorus of windscreen scrapers

provide percussion

in the testament to daylight:

the morning dawning soundtrack

scratching hip-hop

slip-slide

slithering

music of winter.