When it’s really cold, the light in the morning takes on a peculiar quality. It’s an intense whiteness overlaid with a transluscent pink veil that lights the ice-encased tree branches as if they were beginning to burn.
When it’s really cold, the sky sky shows all the seasons; winter white near the horizon, then cornflower blue for spring, then clear summer blue then smokey autumn blue at the peak of the dome.
When it’s really cold, there’s an odd sourceless mist near the ground first thing in the morning that blurs the edges of the world, but only for a short time before drawing back and revealing them in a new clarity.
When it’s really cold, the snow takes on the consistency of sand. It snakes across the roads. The snow drifts become scoop-sided and knife edged and the pure, sparkling whiteness that is the source of all metaphors.