White Moths in Amber

January 14

An hour before midnight, snow curtains the windows. I leave the party. In the syrupy amber of the streetlamps, snowflakes hang suspended like white moths. The streets are so quiet I can hear the stifled stutter of their white wings against my umbrella. Behind me, a thin thread of footprints unspools, preserved in amber. Tree shadows, raked and rangy, scratch the resin, crosshatching the burnished midnight. Ahead, twin tram rails sidewind through the snow, tracks black and slick with melted light. Suddenly, molten copper pours down the rails as if through a crucible, spilling along the track toward me as a tram skates around the corner, headlamps splashing the snow with liquid copper.

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