The Icicle

Drip

Drip

Drip

I watch the droplets fall from the tip of the icicle hanging outside my bedroom window. The sun beats down on it, making the ice look like crystal, sparkling in the light.

Drip

The first frost came swiftly, squeezing my lungs, making them hurt. As if the icicle is pressing on them with every breath I take.

Drip

The snow is a brilliant white under the sun, hurting my eyes if I look at it too long. It does not melt as the icicle does, not that I can see.

Drip

I can see the water flow over the icicle to the point, where it gathers, then falls. It gleams, and makes me think of how sweet and cold the water would taste.

Drip

The trees are almost perfectly still now, after being shaken by the winds of the night before. I could hear the wind snaking through the branches, playing a song with no words. But they are silent now.

Drip

The icicle is smaller now, dripping slower. It makes me sleepy watching the water gather, fall, gather, fall.

Drip

I rest my head, dreaming the icicle changes shape into a bird, and flies away, on glass wings, further and further until all that I can see if it is a gleam in the sky, a second sun.

When I wake and look again, the icicle has gone.