I am that penguin.
It is cold, the kind of cold that bores through your exposed eyeballs and freezes the inside of your nose (that sensation always brings me back to being about ten years old in Chicago during an endless winter of towering snow). Tomorrow, they say, will be better. We've even slacked off on our regular dog walks, worried it will be too cold for Clover. Her feet get cold, and she holds them up one by one. We have walked only as far as Deering Oaks and a few times a day let them out back to bound around the yard.
|photo by Xavi Bou|
If birds left tracks in the sky, they'd look like this. Also like zippers, like strands of DNA, like fish bones painted in watercolor.
The inconsequential floor is beginning to shine.