Through the Ice

Rooflines, engulfed autos, gardens and trees seen through the lens of ice on a late January morning — winter ice is a master carver, poet and painter, storyteller and spellsinger.

When the chill wind blows along the roof at the back of the little blue house in the village on winter mornings, everything seems to be in motion here. There is the hollow swoop of air across the old brick chimney — there is the creaking sway of trees — there is a vast tinkling and chiming all around. A impromptu symphony is being conducted and played "out there" beyond the windows this morning — I am surrounded by harps, bells, piccolos and bassoons.