The urge to go outside is intense.
Everything is aglitter, you say, but you see my nose press against the window and the fog of my breath on the cool glass.
You acquiesce. When I step into the wintry air, I wait for a whisper of a moment, then gingerly, silently, push on.
Since my last outdoor foray, our familiar garden by the sea has transformed into an alien, frozen world, gilded with ice. Each bramble and bush laminated in a thick, crystalline coat, every amber blade dressed in its stiff raiment of frost. With a watchful step, I venture out on the crust of snow.
Nothing wiggles in the undergrowth. That is the weird thing. No voles to hunt. No shrews to track. No grass birds to chase. Somewhere, they hide, somewhere, they abide, sequestered away. A vague memory surfaces of another time when the earth, with all its movement and life, lay frozen. Will they return as before?
The wind gusts, my whiskers twitch. You did warn I wouldn’t like it.
My home is filled with warm comforts, flush with love and water and treats and a full bowl of food.
I wonder why I am here in this bleak and boreal netherworld.
My paws, by this time, are numbed by the pitiless cold.
Each tender little pad glows bright pink, like frozen raspberries.
The bliss and warm embrace of my domestic nest beckons. Despite my feral, tigerish airs, I am not a wild beast.
I have no need to brave the savage bite of winter.
I have had my fill of this endless chill and plod home, eyes on your face, gaze questioning:
Is spring only a rosy dream?
Weekly Photo Challenge: The Rule of Thirds
Writing Form: Prose Poetry