At this time of year Walden changes as often as the weather in Boston does. On New Years Day it was freezing cold and the wind as I walked was icy. So was Walden.
It chattered like false teeth
croaked like a small throated frog
cracked like the earth’s crust breaking apart
well, isn’t it?
scratched like sticks dragged over stone
beat like a drum
prickled like dry skin
tickled like a lap of water on sand
splotched like rain at the beginning of a deluge
glistened like tiny diamonds
crystals of light
that it is…