Here, at the Lake

 Yesterday, the wind blew hard and the trees swayed

and toppled unseen, muffled, under the weight of heavy

snow, water laden; the sky turned the color of smoke, whites

and grays, and the lake grew dark, black and cold, white caps

rising up to lap the shore as an ocean would do, sending a spray

to where I stood bundled warm against the wind, here, far inland,

by this landlocked lake, small and ringed with forest and ridge.

 

But this morning, the water was calm and still, barely a ripple;

a thin layer of ice had formed, thick at the shore, thinning

to open water a few yards out. The tinkling of ice breaking

against itself in that thin border between water and ice newly formed

rings out clearly, tinkling like the voices of winter pixies, whimsical 

and magic, brought to life, shaking loose their wings and taking flight, 

blown by the wind, proclaiming their season of ice and snow, 

here, at the lake.