Thaw

living thing whose neck has been broken. I crawl around it, breathe a sigh of relief, then move on. I am near the crest now and starting to worry about my descent. When the car phone rings, I do not pick it up. I need to focus on my driving. Then, suddenly, I have reached the summit, and thrust out around me as far as I can see, mountains rounded and encased in ice to their crests, where Mother Nature has staked her undeniable glacial claim. It is as though she has been expecting me. Her valleys are utterly quiet and waiting, tables clothed in white, and set with her finest crystal, her peaks and mountainsides chandeliered with shiny tubes of ice. In Wisconsin I have seen awesome winters. But nothing has quite prepared me for the panoramic beauty spread before me now. I forget that I am at nosebleed height on a treacherous, icy mountain top in Tennessee. I forget that I will have to descend, that there are other mountains to cross. For now, I am surrounded in a pristine wonder of ice-covered switchbacks and ridges that cross and re-cross. For the moment, time is inconsequential, the world miniscule and far away. The climb up the mountain has been nerve-wracking, slow and fraught with danger, but the reward has exceeded all the peril and, for now, I just breathe deep and let my soul and the mountains become one. Thaw Her husband left too soon only footprints and a pot-bellied stove heating the inner room when she finds kindling. Night spins from her head like a broken top rattling warped floor boards. She stirs, touches the cool black neck for warmth opens the door squints for bright edges of wood. Dawn's starling call lures her to the street. But trumpet vines entwine the gate and she must wait the spring to snap the twigs free the swing to go. —Margaret B. Ingraham 53 ...