Frost

It was cold last night, cold as in we had frost. I know, I know, big deal. But lately, we don't see much frost in Texas, and I, for one, miss it. Ten years ago, we could count on days and even a week (yes, a whole week!) of hard frost, mornings of hacking through inches of ice on the watertroughs so the horses could get a drink. We haven't had to do that in several years now. Every few years we'd have an icestorm and wake to a world dripping diamonds, the light so bright and glinting in every direction as to be positively blinding. I can't remember the last one.

 I miss frost because it helps keep nature in balance, in check. It stabilizes populations of bugs, insects and parasites, fleas, flies and my greatest enemy, the grasshopper, by killing some off in the dark cold of a winter's night when noone is watching, sparing us the sight of the less romantic side of nature's work. Why is the poor little grashopper my number one enemy? Because one or two is cute, but three's company and in the thousands, they are an army bent upon destroying everything in their path, including my hard-fought-for garden. It's a battle that begins in April and does not end untill November or even December.

I miss frost because it provides for spectacular mornings like this one, the slowly rising sun glittering through the fine, crystallized coating of frozen dew covering every blade, branch and the leaves of evergreens. The morning is still and and quiet, not a wind stirs, my breath puffing out before me in plumes of gauzy white against an almost blue landscape. The dog's paws crunch on the grass leaving warm and melting pawprints. They run and set off three white herons sheltering in our pond, three streaks of majestic and pristine white winging their way across a pale rose sky. As I watch, peace pervades the scene and I finally take that deep breath that has been escaping me. It is cold and flinty in my lungs and it wakes me in ways no coffee ever could.

Yes, I miss frost. It's already gone, in the time it took me to write this it has melted before the advancing sun, leaving in it's wake a glittering ocean of dew still clinging to blades of grass. I wonder when it will come again.