Yesterday was blue and clear, with a sun so bright it hurt. This morning is overcast with snow pouring from huddled clouds: the ground, sky, and air itself is dull white, the color of light denied.

Yesterday afternoon, one massive icicle fell with a clattering crash, and so did its shadow. Today, where have icicle and shadow gone?

It’s easy at this time of year to wish the winter to hurry along: please, can’t spring hasten and come? And yet time waits for no season: as I type these words several juncos twitter outside my window where yesterday a chickadee flitted. Last week I heard waxwings keening in the trees overhead, and by the next day they were gone: to whence?

Icicles, shadows, and the fleet-feathered birds of Time: I suspect they all wing to the same destination, Westward, beyond the horizon of inevitability.