As soon as I looked outside this morning, through the small space between the curtain and the edge of the glass door by our bed, I knew I was in for a treat. The few small branches I could see were encased in ice. But I would have to move fast; I knew from experience that the sparkling wonderland the woods had become would soon melt away.
Taking time only to dress and to tend our two woodstoves, I dashed out. Hearing what sounded like a steady rain, I knew I had already missed the ice-enveloped scene at its peak.
What sounded like rain was instead water dripping from hundreds–thousands–of branches, twigs, and berries, as the warming morning released them from their icy embrace. To walk beneath a tree was to be ‘rained’ on.
Walking from the front door to our driveway meant stooping to pass beneath a new, temporary arch. The slender holly tree that usually stands upright next to the house was bent over, under the weight of the ice that outlined its branches. As I moved farther up the driveway, the stalks of bamboo growing at the driveway’s edge were bent far over, many of them resting on the driveway. While I could lift the bamboo stalks only with difficulty, I knew that they would begin to straighten as the ice melted, and before long they would completely resume their usual posture.
I had to visit the deeper forest while this transformation lasted. So down the side of the ridge I walked, marveling as I went. Now at the corkscrew willow branch resting on the ground, its curling twigs made all the more vivid by their frame of ice. Now at the graceful little dogwood, its red berries shining all the brighter from within their glassy coatings. And now at the red maple, always pleasing in the spare, curved line of its trunk, today looking even more elegant under its low, wide crown glistening with ice.
Once I descended a little farther, I saw a dramatic scene. The little white pine saplings that dot an open area were all bowed reverently, their tops touching the ground. These tiny bending figures immediately brought to mind the Muslim children I taught several years ago, who prayed every day, with their heads to the ground. Unlike the children, however, the bowed pines did not all face Mecca.
After some time in the forest, I climbed the steep hill to the top of the ridge and followed the dirt road that runs along it. What a pleasure to look out to the east on such a morning. Hills, some near, some far, and others in-between, were interspersed with misty clouds. As in a Chinese painting, the hills were softened, made more mysterious by the mists that partially obscured their shapes.
Turning and heading back toward home, I noticed here and there, beside the road, sparkling bits of ‘glass,’ blown from the branches before they could melt away. For a few moments these bits of ice were little jewels. Then they disappeared into the soil.–April Moore
