The fresh sunrise is the size of a half dollar held close to the face. It ignites the ice-encrusted world and petals into cold flame the frail blooms of an early spring. The ice is death, but amid the veins of light that web skyward it suggets a life of its own. I am tired but it invigorates me and I wonder if I am glowing as well. In a contest between age and youth, the dogs play in the still morning, their breath visible. I imagine their barks are cacophanous. Perhaps they are just opening and closing their mouths in a silent parody of conversation. The crunch underfoot is delicious and I laugh as they pound their paws in the snow towards the hearth warmth of the house.