Awake, more-or-less standing and coffee brewing,* I went to the front door to sniff firsthand this single-digit-temperature air the strange people inside my TV were so excited about.
From the North, I heard a strange grinding, crunching sound. It was a bit like the icefall several days ago and it was moving closer, growing louder--
A single, small bright light speared the darkness, pursued by a tiny red light: someone on a bicycle zoomed by, crunching on the thin skin of ice in the (mostly) cleared center of the street in front of Roseholme, flashing into view under the streetlight and gone again, a silhouette in the predawn. An Ice Rider.
It's 4° F.
* Jamaican Blue Mountain. In the Chemex. Ooooo, my Mr. Valentine, he is So Fine!
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago