Thin Ice

It is the season of thin ice
On Beaver Lake,
The time of year when I had just begun to believe
That this time around, the lake ice,
solid beneath our feet for months,
Must surely be impenetrable.
How can it possibly surprise me, year after year,
When it begins to melt—just at its edges,
Water lapping quietly at the shore for the first time in many months?

I am fascinated every time this thin edge of water reappears,
As if I had forgotten water had ever been there.
I crouch down, gaze into it,
Watch as shrimp dart
Under the edge of ice and back into the daylight again.
If I watch long enough, I can even trace the slow path of a stonefly larvae
As it drags its finely-masoned cocoon across the mud.

Most nights, the edge ice refreezes,
Re-covering what water was open yesterday afternoon
And will be again,
Hesitant to take that next, bold step
Into a new season.

Three osprey have been circling high above the lake, of late.
I thought I heard their shrill call a few weeks ago.
I caught my breath, not daring to hope.
Too early, I thought, eyeing the nest to which they return
Year after year,
But sure enough, here they are,
To reclaim old territory.

The thin ice on the edge of these mornings
Is not like the snow covered, solid surface of winter.
Light seems to emanate from objects below—
Colored pebbles, pieces of discarded boat covers,
Fishing lures,
Splashes of color missing for a season
Illuminate the delicate, feathery veneer
Just glazing the surface.
In this rare time, I hold two worlds in one view.


Three days ago I walked the still reliable
middle-of-the-lake ice.
Lost in thought, I was startled by a sound,
unheard for a season.
I looked up. Not far from where I stood,
A small piece of water had opened,
A transition zone of cattails and reeds between a small pond and the larger lake.
There, hidden in the dried remains of last year’s vegetation,
Stood two Canadian Geese,
Waiting.

Yesterday I returned to the geese’s claim,
And instead found a pair of mallards splashing there,
Content.
Soon, the lake will open
Negotiations will begin, decisions will be made
About how this place will be shared.
But for now, the early comers relax
Into these days of incremental change
Trusting in the cycles of the earth.

I am not always so trusting.
Impatiently, I try to peer around the next corner,
Attempt to interpret each small change as it occurs,
Believing I might choose where my next foot will fall.

In the cold season,
The ice forms layer by layer,
Capturing a record of each day.
Now it melts much the same way,
Each event of the past season
Slowly revealed:
Pieces of a doe’s tan and white fur scattered in a semi-circle,
Marking the place she was taken down.
Thousands of fishermen’s holes,
Each hidden, as it snowed,
from the next fisherman’s view,
Comic now in their pattern and number, covering
the lake’s surface.

The same is true of our footprints.
We have walked the lake all winter,
My husband, my dogs, and I,
And now our footprints are everywhere,
Covering the lake.

Examining them, I realize
I never know the destination or even the direction
Of the trail I make while I am walking.
It is only on these rare days of transition,
These days of thin ice
When I can step off the path,
Look back from a different vantage point
And trace the patterns created by my footprints.
Only then, do I realize
The true arch of experience
Which has carried me to this place.