It’s impossible not to lose yourself in the story, when every twig drips with crystalline ice and a cushion of chill softens the edges of bare trees.

How to describe what is to come? I stand barefoot on asphalt cooled to freezing by congealed mist, staring into the gray ribbons that twist in penetrating light. I rock forward on my toes, shivering, straining to see more than shoulders of trees and bushes emerge from the swirls. I can’t be the only one to feel this way, as if the thought of plans, of the future, grow an instant cavity in my chest.