Wednesday, December 18, 2019
White crystals piled in a sheer slope, a (sort of) straight line edge atop.
Perfect domes on the posts.
Nature, what an engineer.
The next morning:
Fog shrouded world beckons.
Black and white and gray.
Nature, what an artist.
I've always felt that fog was magical, I could step into the gray and through to a different place. So I went out into the misty winter morning, down to the pond covered in ice, covered in snow.
Was the spring flowing? I wondered. A long trek to the other side of the pond to check. But I trekked.
I was not the first one to pass this way -- deer tracks in the snow.
OK. So that's why no deer tracks went through here. I find my way around, through tall grass buried in snow.
And there it is, where water seeps from the ground, over green moss-covered stones, at the base of the hill. An open place in the snow, a small stream of water, a bare flicker of movement. A bare flicker.
I recall the first time I saw this place... February... 15 degrees Fahrenheit... a world covered in snow. Water flowed so that I could hear it as I came down the hill on the other side of the pond.
Today, barely a flicker. December. Perhaps another day it will flow and fill the pool. But today it sleeps. Sleeps. Dreams.
Nature, what a dreamer.