Driving through the frozen wastes. Stopping at Bass Lake, remembering summer swimming and fishing on and around this ice-bound dock.
Stopping along the little outlet stream halfway down the grade into the valley. It's burbling along in spite of the frigid temperatures.
Stopping along the river five miles or so upstream from the house. Still some open water, and no floes to be seen. Where have they gone?
Climbing out of the truck at home. I already know where the floes have gone. They're jammed up down there behind the house. I walk down to take another look.
Ice from shore to shore.
So it's cold and icy. But here's what will stay with me for now: the happy song of that fast-flowing brook.