21 Days From My Window
Outside my bedroom window this morning there is frost on the neighbor’s truck. Cold winter has blown his icy wind through the morning dew and left behind a crystal sheet of frozen breath. The street is quiet but for a handful of birds, darting back and forth across the sky. The trees stand, damp and chilly, in the morning breeze. They have not changed all that much, maybe a few curled, faded leaves are relaxing their grip and preparing to fly.
The grass just below the window sill glitters brightly in the morning light. The frost knows it has only moments to capture my attention before the sun melts it away, and the day grows warm. Already I see wet footprints across the neighbor’s yard, where school children trudged out to face the day, and stepped from the curb to the bus. The footprints are dark against the silvery layer on yellow green grass.
Drops of water draw vertical lines down the windshield of the neighbor’s truck, like an etch-a-sketch toy. I blow lightly on the glass. My warm breath gathers on the window pane, and quickly disappears. It is fleeting, this frosty, cold wetness. It will fade quickly in the lightening hours of this morning, and winter will be chased away once again by a fading yellow sun.