On a December walk the rain was steady and the clouds gray.
The spirit of blue above the gray made the grass and weeds and flotsam leaves lush.
Standing water made for a small swamp but the water was clear and fresh.
Translucent glass that dimmed the view of a world just as saturated away
But brittle. I feared my fingers might not break through.
Might freeze and turn blood and flesh to ice and I would lose the fingers.
Or get stuck, and the placid scene I saw would be ruined for others
Left to wonder why the man in the rain jacket complained and could not move.
