It's bone chilling cold tonight. Clear sky, nearly full moon, what's left over from last night. And only the memories of the summer. The sun runs away south this time of year.

I remember asking my dear friend and physicist, John, how it was that an icy glass of water seemed to "radiate" the cold. I mean, if you put your hand there, near it but not touching, you feel cold reaching out to your skin.

He thought for a moment, not because it was a hard question for him, but so he could frame the answer in a way that my mortal mind might grasp. Then he said, "It doesn't exactly radiate the cold, instead it steals the heat from your hand." The sensation of heat transferring from my hand to the glass leaves my nerves feeling the cold, as though it was projected from the ice.

During the day, there is my retreated summer's sun. Some call it a cold sun, as though its temporary distance has made it any less scorching. But it does feel like the freezing air is pressed onto my face. "Radiated", what a wrong word that is in this case. Instead, my warmth is pulled from me, drawn south. "Stolen", as John said.

As soon as it goes, I miss the warmth that was once mine. A breath into the night air makes it appear visible. My body's heat floats out and up and dissipates into blackness. I can't help but wonder if it has made any difference, this old body that has borrowed the heat from the sun itself.

If the cold sun is taking from me, did it get all it wanted? Is it satisfied? Or will it be my joy and wonder to give until, at last, it returns from the equator with its laughter all full of blues and pinks?