Beneath the surface of the ice is a frozen underwater ballet: bubbles mid-pop, twisted fronds of weed and spar-like branches mid-movement, in the mid-swirl ripples of murky green water. They seem somehow surprised, as if caught unawares by a sudden gust of frozen breath. Fawns and rabbit tea parties, turned to statues by Winter’s white witch. The eddies of the water, paused mid-arabesque, create a cursive script to record the wind’s whispers.
The dog’s claws tentative tip, tap, tip on the surface, drawing up frothy sharp shavings and twisted skate-lines behind him. In the distance, a crow caws with horrid laughter and takes off in a kerfuffle of black feathers. The sky behind the trees, outrageously pink, lurid orange, hell fire red, drapes a soft golden cloak around the shoulders of a silver, frosted world. Out of the corner of my eye, a puff of steam in the grass, where the Little Folk are passing.
