This morning i walked outside and saw two mourning doves in the trees. There was also an uncharacteristically quiet blue jay flying about. It was early, the mist was rising from the snow. The sky was a light grey that contrasted with the tree silhouettes; nearly brutal in its definition.
“Snowflakes are not made for solitude; each, with outflung arms, tangles and meshes with its neighbor; over time, they compress, become ice. But ice is mutable, even in the deepest cold. Inside a glacier, pressure and affinity will melt ice at temperatures far below freezing, so that two pieces, in contact with each other, melt and refreeze as one.”
In the afternoons when i drive along the wooded path, I turn the music off and lower the windows. I want to hear the deer run across the woods, the leaves crunching beneath their black hooves. I want to see the hawk as it glides onto a lower branch, scanning the ground for small creatures. My breath becomes visible inside the car, the pup wimpers; my tires crush the ice with satisfying cracks and I drive on with the frigid silence embedded in my bones.