I tell her that she can sit on the rug, if she likes. She smiles and sits just off the rug, by an inch.
Kids scale the dirty hills of snow on the curbside. They turn them into ice forts, seared black by the breath of dragons.
Broken ice parades on the river. One piece looks like a miniature mountain, another like a shallow bowl of soup. A third is bearing birds towards the ocean.
Shoppers tear apart a store gone bankrupt.
He's too young to understand the jokes, but old enough to want to laugh along.
A small diner. Photos of organically grown vegetables over a grotty ketchup dispenser.
The beat taps and hisses beneath the melodic line.
The temperature has climbed a little, and the day is sunny. People venture out onto the ice that covers the lake, even though it's melting under them. They smile, wave at friends and loved ones taking pictures from the shore. The lake doesn't swallow them up, not this time.
The adults talk, while the children crank up the volume on their favorite Disney Channel show.
The ice has turned to muddy slime. Only beautiful at dusk, when it gleams under the lamps.
On a winter night, a child wails in his stroller, and teenage boys cry, "Dude, dude, dude, dude!" in the dark.
The ducks have found one hole in the ice to call home. They settle around it, their feathers puffed.
The trees stoop and drop an offering of snow to the ground.
Clouds scudding over restless trees.