Ice

The ice on my window collects itself, opaque and thick near the bottom, thinner and more translucent as it grows up the window, coldly reminding the sun trying to shine through that it’s winter here, thank you very much, and Snow and Cold are the only gods here. 

Resisting both the heat from inside and the slight warmth provided by the sun’s rays, the ice clings fast to the window, refusing to let any hope or warmth through.  This window is mine, it says, and I will hold it in my brittle, cold, beautiful embrace forever. 

It doesn't know that it has already lost.  It feels its strength increasing as the sun creeps closer to the horizon, its more and more oblique rays offering ever less resistance to the growing power of the ice.  The greedy ice climbs further up the window, grasping it hungrily, taking all it can.  Surely I have defeated that weak yellow ball of fire, it thinks, as the light fades to a pale gold, and now nothing can stop my glory from spreading to cover the window.  ALL the windows.

It doesn’t know that the sun will rise again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and the next.  It doesn’t know that even now the earth is spinning, orbiting, turning, to tilt once again towards the sun and that winter will then be succeeded by spring and summer.  It has only existed since yesterday.  How could it know the forces that march inexorable forward to ensure its defeat? 

It may win today, and it may win tomorrow.  It may think it has won forever.  It doesn't matter.  Dawn will follow dawn until Spring comes to dethrone the gods of Snow and Cold.  The window will be released from its icy shackles at last and will again be free to bask in the warmth of the sun.