A thought came to me this morning as I plied the less-populated backroads on my way to work. I have an almost irrationally insane love of frost on trees. Like the sight of wind made visible in wheat fields, or crisp nights with uncountable stars, or the sweet, tender, first leaves of spring,  rime-covered branches always make me smile. 

         I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the way the air has found the branches, outlining every curve, branch and surface. Maybe it’s the fanciful idea that it’s the breath of trees, turned to frost. Maybe it’s the way that the frost sometimes shows you the direction the wind came from. Or how it glitters in the right light. It’s one of those things to be enjoyed a window away, from the warmth of a cozy room. Or a moving car. Cold out  there, warm inside. In every possible way.

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