Morning Ritual | Karina Borowicz
Daylight came and I swept back the curtain to see how much it had snowed.
As I pulled the stiff fabric aside, the window struck a solemn, thunderous note. The ice that had swarmed wildly overnight on the inside surface of the glass began falling away in penitent flakes. My grip on the curtains released, but an unseen iron tongue continued lolling against the pane. I snuck a glance through a crack of near-silence: the city was uncovered, it hadn't snowed a bit, and the sky's blue paint had hardened brilliantly.
The flakes that had settled on my wrist and the sleeve of my robe were beads of water now. Eyes closed, I counted: How many months till we inch toward softness, the whispered rosary of rain?
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