My living room window looks out onto a small wildlife preserve. I assume its acre protects many small marsh animals and birds. Occasionally I'll hear the doves or see a snake disappear into the brush. Through it runs a small creek. I can hardly make it out through the pines. Sometimes the water stares back like a pane of glass and at other times, at the bottom of the bed, lies the long grass swept to one side by the current. It's beautiful, but like a child, I want to run down and feel the cushion of the marsh under my feet. I want to plunge my hands into the stream and grope for pebbles.
ice the waters