The white goddess whispers and the fog obeys, stripping birds’ bright raiment, clad in bone and frost, flying with ghosts.
On the second day of the big fog, I went outside only to feed the birds. Beneath my feet the white-furred grass crunched, and fingers of fog ran through my hair, its voice muttered in my ears. Body heat fled, and the voice became my pulse, my pounding heart. Fingers numbed and I retreated indoors. Birds fluttered close to the windows, pecking at the scattered seeds but more insistently around the window frames, as if looking for a way inside. They fluttered silently, voices, like their bright colours, leached away. Tapping. Fog clung to the frosted grass blades, frost flakes filled the foggy air, clumping thicker until even the tall trees were too faint to see. At evening, the birds left, sucked into the fog, and night fell on perfect stillness. On the third day we left the shutters closed, intimidated by the ghost-grey that pressed against the glass, where condensation trickled like tears, afraid to see faces in it. If the birds had returned, we heard no insect-tapping on the wood. Instead, we heard the cracking of ice.
The night is deep now, perhaps dark, but I suspect it will be grey, thick like city river water. There will be no sky no stars, no frost shimmer on the meadow, no moonlight. Only fog, grey, dirty, pale, like winding sheets unwound from ancient graves. It presses against the shutters, the roof, and we hear it sigh. The tapping begins again, and it is not birds.
Fly before the wind, birds, before winter jaws snap closed, before the marrow freezes and the song dies— find the sun.