the ice and the sky are different shades of the same early morning, subtle pink through dreary white and beige and grey and the faintest of blue bouncing off from somewhere in between the browns of dried grasses and leafless trees.
i look down the frozen lake at the beaver lodge as I’m putting on my skates for the first time in almost a year, loosening the laces and then re-loosening the laces, finally my feet fit and slide in snug.
the cold air is still and awake and i am alive in it. i remember how to move, slowly, steadily, and probably not the most gracefully yet something so elegant about not lifting up clumsy feet, and pretending instead that i float on this water turned solid
i stay on the far side of the lake from the beaver lodge because things look watery over there, they break the ice around their lodge from below with their heads, or their tails , or something s says and the dusting of snow on the ice is perfect to see the tracks of a canine leading from our near shore to the lodge that just can’t be a domestic dog because dogs are too clumsy to make straight lines like that.