Wind from the east, moist,
fresh. January thaw.
All week snow softened,
stuck to sled runners,
ski edges, slid
off roofs. Whump!
Downspouts gurgled,
icicles dripped,
trickled, splashed
on sidewalks.
In front yards
snowmen slumped.
A hole appeared
in the lake ice,
widened, swallowed
a hockey cage,
a lawn chair, a rake.
Late Tuesday night
temperatures plummet,
engine blocks crack,
pavements heave.
Mothers pile blankets
on shivery children.
The lake freezes clear,
solid, glassy. Black
ice Dad called it.
We awake to a crystal
world. Frigid air bites
our cheeks. We inch
across snow crust,
venture onto the ice,
peer down at jagged
rocks, stationary fish
at rest on dead leaves.
A shaft of sun dances
on the surface, hits
our astonished eyes.
