Gibberish

An Erratic Winter

At the night of daylight-saving time change, a rain fell, quietly, while I was in my sleep. I woke up in the morning, surprised delightfully by the raindrop residues on the balcony, the fresh air, and the silver grey color of the sky that looks and feels just pretty. It reminds me of the days in January and February in Rome, only with one more touch of damp golden color.

Clouds melt into the silver grey sky, willingly and happily, with no need of snow-mountain or whatever forms of their own. The hawk likes it too; he hovers over Michelle Field at leisure, flying close by my window. I had not seen him for a while and missed him.

Yesterday's snow fall has left ice on the wooden bridge. The river looked thicker and darker, bottomless. Clouds thickened and darkened too. Heaven occasionally flashed his blue face between small openings of clouds. For a moment, the sun showed up, its warm rays reaching to touch my freezing knees.

On the rock, where my heron used to stand, an ice cap has grown. The quiet water near the bridge froze, and my snowy egret was gone. Geese, hundreds of them, gathered on the path beside Barton Pond, separating my old hickory from me. A gusty wind suddenly blew some icy grains of snow over my face, refreshing and energizing, I ran all the way along the rail tracks.

III

On my walk to school this morning, the sky is in a strange surreal blue with casual clouds, and the sun, bright, shines, behind my back. Snow flakes come from nowhere, floating, in the sunlight, perhaps confused themselves, aimless and rhythmless. While the snow and temperature are winter's, the sky and the sun are early spring's. Not knowing how to feel, my senses are befuddled.

After a heavy snow storm, the world appears soundless and lifeless. On Michelle Field, winds have quieted down in the evening. I set my feet into the knee-deep fresh snow and moved my legs up and down, leaving two lines of dark holes on its smooth surface untouched yet by people. The lights in the city were gradually turned on shimmering weakly in the evening. A thin moon hung low on the edge of the city, like the sharp blade of a scythe, emitting cold rays. I suddenly felt a frigid ache in my stomach, and shivered. I wondered whether all those lights together could warm up such a cold world.

Along the rail tracks, the snow was still deep, though some had melted and frozen into ice. I tried to step my feet into footsteps left by other people, and discovered surprisingly that it was more difficult to follow the footsteps, though my shoes got wet when I walked my own.

I was the only one on the river, not alone, though. The squirrels were with me all the way making faces among tree branches. A train whistled by, its siren sounding sharper across the ice-sealed river. And the river, united with its banks, by snow and ice, lost itself.

Barton Pond was all in white. On its side, winds were strong and felt colder. This winter, winds seemed to have always been strong there. And I haven't seen people "sailing", not even once.