Undercover by Beth Kephart

The sun was already falling out of the sky, and my parka wasn't thick enough for the wind that was blowing so hard that sometimes the ravens in the trees seemed tossed off their limbs. Snow, I thought, because the clouds were overwrought.

An odd bleached sun pressed up against my bedroom windows, and all about the windows, like delicate frames, white webs of frost had settled in.

Drinkable skies, I'd think of, and amber sun. (About summer)

The sun had come down hard the afternoon before and melted things, but at dusk the temperature had dropped, so now, outside, it was a stalactite world, heavy icicles daggering down from the gutter lines and window ledges.