A
fascination with ice, pack ice, as it rejoices and groans in its high-pitched
voice and spins and spindles its way downriver.
There
is flat ice and piled ice and ice as blue as the river and mirrored ice and
ice reflected in the river and grey ice and black ice and brown ice and ice
so heavy it sinks and ice so light it rises to the surface and bubbles and tinkles,
a fine champagne in the river's glass.
And
the gulls: hopping, hiding, riding, sliding, lapping, flapping, taking off,
landing ....
...seriously
standing, one-eyed and winking, there for a second and gone in the blinking
....
...
there are mountains to climb on, small pillows to recline on, view points and
rest points to take your time on, meditative areas to be sublime on, ice sheets
to write prose on and some to rhyme on .... some ice sheets aged with dirt and
others clean enough to dine one ....