The creek is frozen over, all but for the barely visible trickle of white water flowing through the roots of the fallen tree that bridges the banks. My eyes are struck in awe by the frost etched ice that holds a green hue amongst the winter bare bark and skeletal branches set against an unclean sky of ever phasing blue. I have to wonder if the creek is nothing more than haunting summer memories projected from the dreaming hibernators, and if I were to kneel into the unforgiving mud, cracking the ice with my fist, plunging my hand through the sting…if my palm would catch July warmth and a thriving ecobreath to carry me through to the first splitting bud of spring.
E.A. O'Connell
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