yesterday was warmer and it rained, but jack frost is back today, that's what march is like. on the road there are still a few worms but they are frozen. wormsicles. there is a certain kind of ice on the puddles at the side of the road, the thin glass kind, fracturing like a sugar pane when you delicately press your boot, smashing like a windshield when you jump. later in the day, when it gets warmer, you will be able to push the puddle's barely frozen surface and see it wrinkle and fold like a sheet. where there is bare earth and bumpy old grass, the clumps glitter cold, fine-crunching beneath your boot, grains of glass melting from the faint heat of your foot. it is still cold, but not so cold that you couldn't eat an apple outside and taste it. these are the things of march.
Excerpt from The way the crow flies, by Anne-Marie MacDonald.