A walk on the beach. Maybe not.

This morning the road was dry as far as the bluff overlooking the Bay. Even the railroad-tie stairs down to the beach were dry. Shall we try a little stroll on the beach? We shall.  Then we saw the patches of slick ice camouflaged as sand, heard the hollowed out ice caverns creaking above the cold water.  Maybe we’ll come back later with the snowshoes.  The ones with the sharp teeth for gripping ice. Maybe not. (You’re buying these for your mother? the salesman asked Rob the Firefighter. Wouldn’t she rather have these nice light ones? The Firefighter sighed. You’d have to see where my mother likes to walk, he said.)

Back on the bluff it was a pretty dawn, the rising sun reflected dimly on the clouds to the west.  The pale winter sky, the lake, the ice piled on the shore, the sand-paintings the wind makes—I looked at them for a long time, saving them up for a time when I’ll need them.

Back at the Writing Studio and Bait Shop, far above the fireplace, hangs a soft tapestry I wove during my Arts and Crafts period. It, too, is a way of holding this landscape close. Life, it turns out, is not a walk on the beach, but it is filled with astonishing beauty and quiet comfort.