Leaves made of ice

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.

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.

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© Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

The moon is full tonight

Late winter, 2009/2010 ~

The owl has little visual advantage over the hare or field mouse this evening, as the full moon, clear skies and fresh snow have cast a light over the entire meadow. If he is to eat before sunrise, he will have to rely on his remaining three weapons: The stealth of his approach, the swiftness of his strike and the power of his talons.

The meadow does not photograph well at midnight, even under these conditions. Just picture a place that seems to be sleeping when given a fast glance. But watched slowly--the way it is watched by the owl--it fills with the movement of a nocturnal society. It is a contradiction, at once peaceful and vicious, depending only on your point of view.

© Mike D. Anderson. All rights reserved.

Frost Covered Morning

Midwinter, 2009/2010 ~

Nature provides a reliable navigation tool that will guide you through almost any forest here in the northern latitudes; it is the collection of green, gold or brown lichen that collects on the northern edge of a tree trunk, branch or log... or the soft green moss that gathers on the ground in the shade of the same.

During the winter, nature covers her warm weather clues with snow. But today, I noticed a similar occurance, if only a temporary one, created by coincidence and a southern breeze.

On this crisp January morning, I stepped outside before sunrise to see that the landscape had been painted with a fresh coat of snow and frost. Even above the ground, white crystals clung to nearly every surface in sight; the stairsteps, the side of the house, even the trees and shrubs. But when I looked across the way toward our neighbor's house, to the north, it seemed as if their trees had been overlooked by the frost... but with a closer look, I realized that only the southern face of any surface was frost-free. My first thought was that the winter ice had taken the same approach as the summer moss... using the shadow of the tree to hide from the the sun that would rise shortly. But stepping around to the side of the house, I was caught by a steady southern breeze; it occurred to me that these millions of miniature icicles were the product of a light but steady wind... causing moisture to cling to the northern side of any surface.

I checked later, about nine o'clock. The ice was still hanging in there, probably because the sun hangs so low in the southern sky this time of year.

John Burroughs (1837-1921) was, among other things, a naturalist. His writings include this simple bit of wisdom:

"The best place to observe nature is where you are; the walk to take today is the walk you took yesterday. You will not find just the same things, for both the observed and the observer have changed."

This morning, again, I was provided evidence that he was right.


© 2010 Mike D. Anderson, St. Michael, MN. All rights reserved.

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