In
the morning people go off to work all wrapped and bundled, through
frozen doors, over cracking snow, huffing and puffing, each fueled by
some simmering private indignation: low pay, something that was said at
break. . . The sun is far away on the southern horizon, a vague
hope, more distant than the Caribbean. Eight below zero at eleven
o'clock. The coffee boils and grows bitter. All afternoon,
the same old thing, knucklebone of mastodon, stews on the stove.
The radiator hisses at the long shadows that finally engulf the winter
day. Lights come on for a time in the houses and go out one by
one. We breathe deeply of the dark, we exhale great plumes and
fronds that form on the windows, intricate icy blossoms open around us
all night.
|