Five A.M.

The grass bends under the weight of what happened overnight. Frost, the visible kind — white, crystalline, already retreating from the east side of the lawn where the sun catches first. I am the only person awake on this street. I know because I've checked. No lights. No engines. No dogs yet. Even the postman is an hour away. The frost makes the garden into a different country. The wheelbarrow handle: white. The gate latch: white. The holly leaves, which are normally a dark and certain green, have been outlined in silver like someone traced them with a careful hand. Spiderwebs. This is what frost is for, I think — to reveal the webs that were there all along. Between the fence posts, across the rose arch, one extraordinary construction stretching from the wheelie bin to the downpipe, a meter across, perfect, and normally invisible. The spider is not in it. Smart. The web is a net, not a home. She's somewhere dry, waiting for this to pass. My boots leave prints in the white. Dark green where the frost was, the grass springing back one blade at a time, so my path from the back door is already fading. By eight this will all be gone. The sun will eat the frost. The webs will disappear. The grass will be green and vertical and ordinary. But right now, at five, the garden is all evidence — showing me everything it normally hides, because the cold makes things honest and the light hasn't arrived to complicate matters. I stand here. The kettle isn't on. It can wait. This can't.