I sit by the window this morning with a fuzzy fleece blanket over my lap, a cat snuggled against my legs, and a warm cup of coffee in the sill. I can feel cold radiate from the window glass. The sky is a dusky pink as the sun rises, and the naked branches of deciduous trees stand out in black against the blush.

Though most of the trees are bare now, a few final holdouts stand tall, fully clothed in burnt orange leaves. Silver-white frost furs the grass and the brown stems of my sleeping garden. The tassles of the miscanthus grass finger the air like frothy golden hands.

Outside is stillness except for the echoing honk of a Canada goose. People are indoors; all the cars in sight are covered in frost. The morning may seem like an emptiness waiting to be filled. But to me it is perfect in its quiet accumulation of ice particles, autumn colors, and pink light. In its emptiness, it is already full.