It’s February and all of twenty degrees. And if you take into account the wind chill considerably below that. There is a fresh, almost foot of snow, hardly trodden, hiding the beach and yet still there is a corridor of water on the southern side of the pond. It follows the shoreline and dissects the flat expanse of space which I always think resembles a playing field, between the woods on the north and the woods on the south, with a zig zag of rapidly moving water butted against ice, caked in snow, frozen in place.
Yet who knows whether it will last. Or when it will run again.
I stand on the what I know to be beach, shin deep in snow, marveling at how bizarre this scene is. The water, the bitter wind freezing my fingers which, unprotected tap my phone to record images.
Years ago, when I first came to Boston I would drive to the ocean during the winter just to see water, to watch the waves crash upon the beach. The ebb and flow of the tide; so foreign was the concept of frozen ponds. Something inside me felt out of place and I could put it right if I saw water, if I heard the voice of the waves. So I would go to the ocean.
Now as I stand looking at Walden, half ice, half water, snow skirting her shores and decorating the forest beyond, it is the water which seems odd.
I wonder what tomorrow will bring.