This morning, everything is covered in a heavy frost–all the grass under our feet and everything up to fence-height. The frost is hard enough that we don’t crunch through it when we walk and I slip a few times. We head out right as the first pink is pushing into the light blue sky.
And here’s what we see when we look down–thousands of yellow sparkles in the grass, like signal fires from tiny fairy to tiny fairy announcing that the humans are stirring. I have never, in my whole life, seen anything like it. I’ve seen the hard white sparkles of an ice storm or of a thick snow you can hardly look at. But I’ve never seen frozen water throw off such warm looking yellow twinkles. I almost didn’t believe what I was seeing.
You had to be almost right on top of it for it to work. I looked out over the pasture, wondering if I would see that looking like a thousand matches just struck, and though it was beautiful, there were no little yellow flashes. As the sun rolled over the horizon and started up into the sky, the twinkles faded.
By the time we got back to the corner, they were gone.
There’s a moment, very early on in the Voluspa, when the speaker remembers back to the beginning of the world, before the gods have given order to everything, and she mentions the sun at dawn–
The sun, the sister of the moon, from the south
Her right hand cast over heaven’s rim;
–and I cannot help but think of that in these February dawns, that the pink at the edge of the sky is an arm bracing itself against the edge of the world, pushing as the sun lifts herself out of her morning bath and upwards across the day.