Icicles

The church by my T stop has a row of icicles all along the edge of the roof, and I realized that I don't see icicles nearly as much as I used to. My dad always saw them as a loss of heat, therefore a defeat, so perhaps buildings are better designed, or more insulated. I understood why dad didn't like having icicles, but it was fun to break them off, the work involved in breaking a large one, the satisfaction of breaking it, the sound as it landed, either shattering on the ground or thumping into snow. It was extremely satisfying, in the same way that breaking the edge of an ice overhang at the side of the road was (I don't see those at all; I wonder if they're partly a function of roads without sidewalks, or the freeze cycle up in the hills, or something), especially thick ones. Come to think of it, winter was the season for permissable destruction, breaking icicles, stomping ice shelves, breaking through the ice on puddles.

So much to write. Too little time. Must find better balance.