Glass Morning

The silver breath of October has settled on the meadow's edge, stiffening the stems of wild rye into brittle glass needles.

The sun rises thin and pale, a low-wattage bulb in the mist, unable to melt the rime clinging to the spider's lace.

Silence holds the valley's throat. No bird-call breaks the white-flecked air, only the crisp snap of a single leaf falling through the frozen light.