Thin Ice

I live on a small, generous lake that comforts me daily. It’s taught me to pause and pay attention to whatever each moment delivers, especially on days that the world is falling apart.

A great blue heron arrives on enormous blue wings and carelessly preens on the canopy of my boat. A bald eagle sweeps low, scanning for fish that swim too close to the surface. An enormous black and white cat prowls the shore, sniffing out voles and chipmunks. Sunrise pours a liquid bouquet across the water.

It’s winter now, and this week the temperature plummeted. I woke to my little lake delicately shuttered by a layer of ice as thin as phyllo dough.

I was not alone.

Geese, who arrive in wedges every morning, were descending in greater numbers than usual, perhaps dazzled by the shimmering sheet below that looked like the open water—but wasn’t.

I imagined how strange it must feel to the near-sighted, who didn’t recognize a change until the usual touchdown splash became a bump—a slide rather than a glide. They honked wildly in protest.

The more cautious geese pulled up before landing, and settled down along the shore, choosing to test the surface before fully committing.

I watched the bravest step gingerly from the land to not-water, his body perfectly reflected in virgin ice. Others followed timidly and soon a parade of geese in duplicate walked a mirrored runway of ice.

Within an hour, the sun spread its warmth. Geese feet began to poke through the tender surface and the sinking began. One by one, a hundred geese eased safely onto their feathery life vests, grateful that the lake had returned at last.

Things do return, even after a rough patch. As we embrace the solstice and tiptoe out of the darkness and into 2026 my hope for you, dear readers, is hope.