Just before the snow squall the snow already on the ice picks up and flies blurring the islands and obscuring the eagles picking at the deer carcass out on the ice.
Because of the cold wind in my face, I can only look up and stare into that distance a few seconds at a time.
I prefer the beaver ponds and the trunks of the dead trees on the ice.
The snow adds blue shadows.
Death warmed over abstracted into a blue line.
There, I always thought, was art unmade. Then I went out today and saw a woodpecker’s signature.
There are paintings on the ice surfaces of the beaver ponds
But this year the snows covered those masterpieces. The flash freeze of the near reaches of the river that had remained unfrozen
invited us to shuffle head down and imagine we were walking on gallery walls.
The cracks convinced us that we were on something
Less dangerous
And trust that slippery masterpieces
Don’t become too seductive
It will take a thaw before we can take a piece home and hang it on the wall behind our stove.
Compared to such cold abstractions, the winter sky can seem too mannered
No comments:
Post a Comment