I love a heavy frost. I love to walk through a grass field thick with frost; each blade encased in a crystalline shell, so that every step makes a crunching sound as the ice as well as the frozen, brittle blade within is crushed beneath my shoe.
Sometimes in November, when the weather is cold but before the grass is buried under snow, foot tracks made in a frosty field will remain for days, suggesting permanence as unrealistic as immortality. When I was a young boy living in Alabama, I used to love walking across our frosty lawn on sunny winter mornings, often getting into trouble for getting my Hush Puppies all wet.
Frost is frequent and more noticeable in the South because a Southern winter often is cold enough for frost but rarely cold enough for snow, and so the frost is frequently visible on chilly winter mornings.
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