when the warm came last week, it would turn the white back to water during the day. then the night would turn it back to the slickness and the slide. and we'd come out in the morning, when the sun was first shining over the shed, and we'd step on the thin stuff with our boots and our paws and our stiff, shattered bodies. and it was so loud, like the breaking of glass. in the quiet morning cold, it was stentorian. today...