blue ice

It's too beautiful not to stop, so you park on the empty pier. The wharfs are stacked in the center, barnacle-studded. When you get out of the car, the wind blows your hood back hard. You should stop to find your mittens, but you don't. You are pulled to the edge, as close as you can get to the water, made darker blue by the white ice around the edge. A flag snaps steadily. Gulls barely make headway against the clear blue sky. The water moves slow, thick with cold. You take out your camera and turn the dial to video. You hold it steady as the wind assaults your bare hands. Slowly, you turn, trying to catch it all. Your eyes tear. The strings of your hood slap your cheek. Your hands harden into claws, but you hold on as long as you can, snaring something wild, something you can drag into the room full of fluorescent lights and gray cubicles, proof of life beyond work.