One degree above freezing, and the last icicle has turned dull as the eye of a dead fish. As I watch, it trembles in the breeze and lets go.

Eyes shut to the strong sun, I watch the shadow-flicker of meltwater dripping from the eaves, the icicles letting go like vestigial tails.

Sunny and warm. Meltwater drips furiously onto the broken bones of icicles. The deep blue sky of late morning is all but empty of jets.

Sunlight brightens as the thin clouds move off. Icicles begin to drop from the eaves, their shattering more elegant-sounding than any glass.