Late winter, 2009/2010 ~
I suppose that if I write anything further about frost, one might conclude I am a fan of the cold. Few things could be less true; I am eager for the spring sun to condemn all of this snow to a watery end, and chase it to the river where it will float my kayak.
This morning it seemed that the ice itself was longing for summer.
I suppose that if I write anything further about frost, one might conclude I am a fan of the cold. Few things could be less true; I am eager for the spring sun to condemn all of this snow to a watery end, and chase it to the river where it will float my kayak.
This morning it seemed that the ice itself was longing for summer.
Again today, there was an icey fog on the meadow. And instead of lifting with the sunrise, some of it clung to the trees and shrubs... in such a manner that it seemed to mimmick the leaves that would sprout there in the spring. The flakes rose more than a quarter inch from some of the branches, using the twigs and even thorns as their anchors.
In its shape, in the way it clustered, and in the way it reached-out beyond each branch... it seemed like the flakes of ice wanted to be seen as leaves. When spring arrives and the frost melts to moisture for the trees and shrubs to drink, perhaps the ice will have its wish.
In its shape, in the way it clustered, and in the way it reached-out beyond each branch... it seemed like the flakes of ice wanted to be seen as leaves. When spring arrives and the frost melts to moisture for the trees and shrubs to drink, perhaps the ice will have its wish.
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© Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.
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