The temperature dips and suddenly every blade of grass and leaf and wee weed is edged in glitter. The first frost is magical.
I run outside and catch the morning sun, the field crunchy white, and I think I might have to wear socks today. I take out my first-sock-day socks, the ones I bought a couple of weeks ago, and I’m tempted. Instead, I warm my toes on the heat register, and I think I can hold out another day or two.
The sun warms through the day, and when it’s time for me to run to town, I slip bare feet into Birkenstocks and rejoice in another sock-free day.
I wonder what this little game is all about? I’m not sure why it matters, whether I wear socks or not?
I guess there’s something in me that enjoys these contests, me against myself. I don’t want to surrender to winter. I want to wiggle bare toes as long as possible.
This is what I noticed today. Frost is lovely, and bare feet are best.