By the Frozen River

On a winter day, the north wind brushes snow away from the ice on the river, and the displaced flakes whirl through the air like confetti, like autumn mist or spring's floating fog.  There is something in the process that is uplifting for this mere human in January, and even the frosty rimed reeds on the edge with their artfully curling tops are eloquent of something wild and alluring.

Pleasing beyond words are the russet spikes outlined against the bright blue sky, white of the fields and trees on the farther shore. We call the spikey creatures bullrushes, or reedmace, cattail, catninetail, punks, or corndog grass, tucking them into floral arrangements, weaving them into baskets, pounding their rhizomes into flour, or sometimes (as I am here) just watching them sway in the wind. Members of the typha family are pleasing in so many ways, but most of all standing tall in their native place.

In January, there are no caroling birds by the river, and there is silence here for the most part, but for a few moments this past week, I could hear the river singing in its exuberant springtime descent and I smiled, thinking of Vladimir Nabokov's memoir "Speak Memory". On another day, that might have been a good title for this post written in the depths of winter.