Old Jack Frost's trying to tell me something.
For weeks now, he's been leaving messages.
First on the window upstairs, then the windshield, now on the surface of the pond.
Trouble is, I can't decipher them.
Stars and tracks and letters, hills and furrows, valleys and ridges, narrow lines and broad, bright and clear and beautiful.
Simple and familiar, yet intricate and indecipherable.
Clouds and fields;
feathers, pyramids and piles of frozen tears...
Sharp, nebulous, precisely without form.
Right on the surface. But so, so deep...
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