Rooftop Overhang Growing Fangs

The big house next to my Tiny House is a throbbing hub of energy. I can hear my grandsons’ feet pounding the kitchen floor as they run circles around the table. The little one shouts in glee. The attic was long ago converted into living space. Not sure how well insulated the house is. After a snowfall the roofs are iced in white, but after a day or two there are melt spots (if no further snow covers), peeking out like shorn fur on an animal’s hide. The process of melt—either generated by the house, the inhabitants, or thermal from the rare appearances of the sun, a mid-day warmup—creates spectacular icicles.

Like fringe on a surrey. Like monster fangs. Like daggers hanging from a knight’s belt. Like cavern stalactites, solid, hanging from cathedral ceilings.

They multiply, grow longer by the day. I gauge how cold it is by the number of icicles lining the eaves. Visitors from the far north of Narnia.