föstudagur, febrúar 04, 2011


Before this most recent slathering of icing came, I had found the one prior suddenly hovering an inch off the ground everywhere -- the whole town shifted out onto hanging ice. Treacherous. The earth must have contracted overnight, leaving its snowy girth loose.

I've met horses who do that, except they wait until after you've hauled on the buckle strap as hard as you can to cinch the saddle fast. Then they let out the breath they'd (cannily) been holding in their barrel ribs. Climb into that perch, and you'll find yourself listing dangerously as the beast takes to the trot over rocky ground.

On the hanging ice, no less slippery for its altitude, I can too easily see myself suddenly slung under the belly of the world like the hapless rider in the old paper puzzle before you've worked out the trick of it.
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