The Day After the Ice Storm

Ironically, today is absolutely filled with life. Work crews are out in force, shoveling, chipping, scraping, preparing the sidewalk for the strangely erratic day. The path before me is filled wit birds, twittering in treetops, perhaps relieved that the storm is passed.

Everything is melting. I can hear it in the forest to my left, see little rivers running new life through tire tracks on the road. Though it is winter here, my mind dreams up spring out west, rivers fat and roaring with melted snow.

The tops of our own quiet mountains are frosted and dyed blue by the shadows of clouds. The day is cold but filled with apricity and I glow in it. The sun and ice turn the gravel road into a sheet of silver, the dry fields into diamonds, makes the lithe limbs of trees shine, filling the valley like a bowl with an ethereal gleam.

The river seems quieter than usual, as if falling asleep or, more accurately, just waking up. The river cane are heavy with ice and lean wearily across the path. They chime and tinkle as I brush past.

Overhead is a wondrous noise as if the treetops, twisting, are trying to break free of their shimmering casing. A lump of dried grass catches my attention. The blades are thin and gold like hair and frozen stiff after being splayed across the ground by the wind. It is filled with frozen dew drops, the sun sparking rainbows in each orb.

As I return to my room, I feel as one woken from enchantment, rising from a glass casket, opening eyes to see the world in a new way.

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