Plummer’s Hollow

A skim of snow on the ice: dangerous magic. Branches rattle in the wind, and there’s a new, nearly constant creak. The white sky brightens.

Long before daylight you can hear it coming, this first Monday after New Year’s, loud with the whine of truck tires on the interstate.

Too dark yet to tell if the sky is overcast or clear. Wind soughing in the pines. The rapid footsteps of a leaf skittering up the driveway.

A fresh half-inch of snow is enough to give shape to banshees towering into the treetops, which whip back and forth, shedding dead limbs

I love winter. I can rise late and it still feels early: clear sky, sun through the trees, the hollow rattle of a crow too angry to caw.