Reflections on the Fifth Week of Winter

      Saturday snow fell at four inches per hour on my sister in New Jersey, but the sun shone in azure skies at Wells Wood. Spence and I bundled for a winter walk.

      Deer prints curved through gardens. Squirrel trails ended at tree trunks. Rabbit tracks hopped across paths, mice tails dragged between tiny footprints, and wind-blown leaves etched mini divots in the snow.

      We followed a raccoon trail onto a half inch of snow covering rock hard ice over a shallow feeder stream. The prints continued along the ice edging Deer Creek. I climbed to the bank. Spence didn't.

      Muskrats had tracked in and out of bank burrows. Their prints mixed with the others. “It's like a parade,” Spence said.

      Creak.

      “You better get off the ice. It's cracking.”

      “It's fine.” He bent to inspect front and hind paw prints.

      Crack.

      “Spence.”

      “No worries. See . . .” He straightened himself and jumped.

      Craaaaaaaaaaaaack. Splash. Spence dropped into the creek. Water flowed over the top of his winter boots. Ice shards bobbed around his shins. I hustled to the bank, but he grabbed a stump and pulled himself out of the water.

      “What a surprise.” He glanced over his shoulder. “The water is deeper than I thought.”

      “We're going home. Now.” Memories of my frigid, March, toes-to-neck creek soaking urged me forward. But mid way down the path, I said, “You keep going. I want to get a picture.” I focused on the sparkling, burbling water.

      “We'll get there soon enough. My boots are wet–not my feet.”

      “Your jeans are wet too.” I clicked pictures then led the way up the hill.

      He pointed down the field. “Do you want to look for mountain lion tracks?”

      “No. I want to get you inside.”

      “Okay, after I show you the pine cones. They'd make a great photo.”

      I photographed pine cones and the chickadees he said were posing. We even checked that deer hadn't nibbled his little Christmas tree before finally going inside.

      Spence took off his boots.

      “Socks and pants come off too.” I pulled a warm bath towel from the dryer. “Dry with this. It's toasty.”

      He scrunched his forehead. “You're just ordering me around cause the children aren't here to boss.” But he dried with the towel and settled on the sofa with a cup of Constant Comment tea. “I bet I end up in your story. I shouldn't have jumped. The ice would have held.”

     Hadn't he heard the creaking and cracking?

       I checked email. Twenty-eight and a half inches of snow lay in my sister's backyard. But the storm was slowing, and she still had electricity.