The first real frost of the season

Found a patch of frost on the west-facing fence this morning—crystalline, perfect, like lace drawn in reverse. It wasn’t just on the metal; it had climbed up the bark of an old hawthorn, thin and ghostly. I stood there for three minutes, watching the sun hit it just right. Not a single leaf on the tree yet, but the frost was already whispering: this is how silence begins. Took me back to when I used to measure cold by the way it settled into my boots. Still do.