Below the thin ice another world waits. Here brown-black leaves, sunk to the lake floor, wait for brighter days and warmer water. In the warmth they’ll finally dissolve, finally break free from the bond to material reality and enter the world of energy, of theoretical molecular shapes and eventual entropic mess. But for now they’ll wait, and somewhere else fish wait as well, certainly in deeper and darker waters and below ice more than just a millimeter thick. All that keeps me warm is a cup of coffee, exploding out steam from the top. It tastes like mud and oil, so I drink it everyday.
Along the shore are some birch trees. They stand in a huddled line like a herd of deer budging for a drink at the lake. Their newest branches spring forth with a skin of dark red and purple, straining up and out. In the morning sun it’s as though blood pumps deep underneath translucent skin as a testament to the story inside us all.
Above a pair of bald eagles briefly flies over the lake, just a few times. They are on their morning route, searching for open lakes, where the curtain of ice has draped back to allow their hungry talons to skim their surfaces, ready to sink themselves deep into the piscean flesh they’ve craved all winter. The lake is not ready to give up its bounty, though. They seem indifferent to the situation and soon glide on to other grounds.
I am a visitor here. Soon my coffee has completed its job and my body calls me to somewhere warmer. A breeze picks up the cold off the ice and feathers my face. So it is, and ought to be.