Decision to take an early brisk walk is slowed by the ice underfoot. The verges have enough rough ground to hold steps at the width and length intended. Dog paws perhaps are made of rough ground, for she doesn't slip on any angle of hill; pads on any piece of tarmac she pleases. We are on the run of lane from Treniffle to Luccombe when the dark sky breaks. Cloud soaks up a flow of saffron light, it billows out like flaming June.
Once I caught the edge of the Northern Lights; it was like this, luminosity flaring from night, just as suddenly gone.
The risen sun and its tangerine finery slide behind muffling cloud.
Dog and I walk, crunching ice, under the quilted silver.