Frost Hollow
In the high Rocky Mountains, there are hallows and valleys with no outlet, where cold air pools, obstructed by the steep terrain, and the normal order of climate is reversed, growing colder as the elevation drops, so that the peaks and the valley floor are held in equality, bitter here and bitter there, the wind raking downslope, through pine and dwarfed aspen, early to defoliate, until the trees taper off completely onto broad empty plains, with zigzag fencing along the roads to keep the snow from heaping on them. Unhindered in the thin desecrated air, light from the stars shines brightly, and dark face of the moon shows distinct against those bright stars, bright itself, and the arms of the Milky Way span clear across the valley, celestial infrastructure, tracing a path impossible (impractical at the very least) through any earthly engineering. At times the slopes and ridges will light up, will shimmer in a flash, as if by lightning, but no thunder follows, the only sound being wind through sparse branches, the creekbed as it rolls away into the drying grass, and only through patient watching is the source of that other light revealed, a meteor streaking across an already crowded sky, while the ground freezes beneath you.
