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H Deep in your burrowing place under the blankets, you wake to a racket on the roof that must be announcing the descent of the hailstone crown, though who's to say for sure? The hailstone crown is alarmingly indeterminate, subject to sudden transformations. Maybe even now it's changing into a shower of turkey gizzards, or human gallstones, or wisdom teeth. Tiny magnets shaped like Scottie dogs? Petrified little brides and grooms from abandoned wedding cakes? Silver suitcase keys? Miniature spun-glass beehives? Or marbles, like so many calcified points of no return—not the elegant Sulphites with their silver doves and swans glowing spectrally at the center, but micro-Pee Wees, coreless Lutzes with their gold sparkles searing tiny burn marks into the storm. Or maybe Irish Diamonds, which are really rock crystals, or American Rubies, which are really garnets—no less radiant than authentic gems, but so much more appropriate for this particular zip code.

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