Under moonlight last night the crust of snow on the grass glittered the way water does in a sheltered cove--just the faintest shiver of motion. Yet really there was no movement, no change, no shiver. I wonder why eyes are so prone to invention.
Now, in these moments before sunrise, the world has gone dark, and the temperature has fallen to ten degrees. In the little house a red blur flickers against the window of the woodstove. Two clocks tick out of rhythm.
The house is so quiet now, but later today it will overflow with noise and bustle--my parents, my sister and her husband, my young nephews, my smiling college boy and his friend, my giant high school boy, the happy old dog, the shocked young cat. I will cook and Tom will play records. Dark will close in on us again, and I will forget to look at the moon.