I walked up Cravens Terrace toward Cravens House. A flock of twenty or so Robins was feeding among the leaves in the now melting snow. They had left the solitary ways of summer behind. When the nestlings are grown, they join loose flocks to search leaf piles and disturbed soil for prey. On this particular day, they fed beneath the ice sheathed twigs that have our woods a crystal palace.
As ice melted, water dripped from the trees. Each twig sparkled, a perfect gem in the morning sun. The previous day’s landscape was merely pretty, but the overcast sky had prevented the sun from fully illuminating the ice. On this day it was dazzling.
Lower Cravens Terrace was solidly iced in. The sun warmed each bare patch of pavement and spread its warmth to melt the surrounding ice.
I noticed the forest abundant pines, a contrast to the oaks and tulip trees of the woods near my house. The soft, pliable needles of the White Pines had clumped together in one icy wad. The stiff needles of the other pines each had its sheath of ice. The dried flower head of a hydrangea was fully encased in ice, perfectly preserved for a brief time.