Today the Eramosa offers new gifts to nurture the winter-weary soul. Despite temperatures hovering around -10°C (13°F), warm and moving water has opened a wider channel downstream from the place where I enter the park for a stroll. Eventually the river opens almost from bank to bank.
But along its edges, thin windows have spread over quieter, shadowy
backwaters. Across these smooth surfaces, delicate clusters of
long-bladed ice crystals have formed, glinting in the sun. Radiating in
threes they form traingles, other groups look like stars, overgrown
snowflakes with edges like knives. Language can't adequately describe
these geometric beauties. It's as if the river god rose, drifted near the
bank and cast jackstones across sheets of thin ice for a game with the
bowing willows and ashes.
In one place, a fallen tree has sprawled across the water for several years, weathering to driftwood grey. It forms a slight barrier, bright bridge across the flow dark and shining as mercury. The river level must have fallen slightly in recent hours, because thick ice plates, clinging to the trunk, hover several centimetres above the surface. The underside of each shelf dangles many thick, clear fingers. These are like icicles but fatter and gentler, like digits gently dabbling the skin of their lover, passing underneath.
Current swirls around the trunk's elbows and pours over its slender belly, water singing softly as to a February sweetheart. Sometimes a breeze stirs the audience of river grasses to whispering. Still and serenely attentive are silver heads of vervain, joe-pye weed, goldenrod and aster. The liquid voice raises lyrics so very soothing on sunlit air.
Languid, home-bound feet must stop and listen, stock still in the crisp snow. The quiet symphony is endless, unresolved, unlike any work of Brahms or Beethoven. To break the spell, leave behind this song of peace in the heart of winter, is unthinkable.
All written material and images are ©1997-2001 Van Waffle. This page updated Mar. 6, 2002.
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