Ice on the Water

Although the day was cool, it was not cold. Every shade of gray had fallen across the woods and we got into the car and drove to the other side of the peninsula to the park. We took a different trail this time, following the guidance of arrows as if they were demands. In no time a quick and quiet pace had been started with footfalls rhythmically buried in the layer of fallen leaves on the wide path. The damp air captured the sound of our breathing. The only other sound was the dancing across the leaves of a disturbed squirrel now and again.

Eventually the trail took a sharp turn across a boardwalk, but we followed the narrow game trail that invited us straight ahead. There was some deep knee bending beneath fallen oaks required and some large straddling over other logs when eventually we reached the opening wetlands.

The view was uncovered to the ocean in the far distance, but the way was blocked by a lake of gray black water and wheat colored marsh grass. At least one, perhaps two, beaver families had begun the harvest of a number trees in various stages of growth some in early death stood scared while others had already fallen to the forest floor. We sat on one of the larger fallen logs and a woodpecker flew screaming overhead breaking the silence. As we caught our breath the sound of the foghorn at the lighthouse on the point punctured the foggy air in answer to the woodpecker's rhythmic scolding. We sat in silence for sometime but the darkening night forced our return.

We crossed the boardwalk on the trail to our return path and crossed another hill into another marsh valley. This one noisy with mallards and geese whose sudden and panicked flight startled us as we neared.

There was ice on the waters edges but we were not cold. We were complete and comfortable.