Just enough clear sky in the run-up to dawn to catch a few meteors, two of them nearly simultaneous. The absolute silence in which they appear, in contrast to the whine of early traffic on the interstate and the rumbling of a freight train, makes them seem more like a vision than reality. The brief traces they leave on my retina.

Waiting for dawn, I scan the holes in the clouds for meteors. The north side of the springhouse roof still wears a small blanket of snow—more like a thin sheet. Any small beast sleeping in the springhouse attic must be cold.