As berries ripen, the world turns away from the sun, snubbing its warmth, tilting away. Distant, silent, like a haughty person at a party.
After weeks of rain, a sharp frost etched the earth, beautifying mud, and puddle, the metal and daub of our modern world transformed. A silvery crust coated even the most mundane of the outdoor; a tin can decorated inside and out with sparkling, tiny white fire.
We wrap up, enveloped in cosiness. Our worst selves hidden under layers of wool and felt; hair hidden by hats, throats disguised by scarves. Even our hands are covered by elegant gloves; aged fingers usually impossible to disguise are concealed, cocooned.
The cleansing cold air draws breath in. Refreshing as a bucket of ice shaken into a delicate sinus, which snaps into ear and throat.
Then, we wait for snow.
Stella Hervey Birrell 