by the grace of the cold

If you walk to the middle of a frozen lake, late at night, miles from the nearest city or town, and stand perfectly still, eventually even tuning out the sound of your own breathing, you hear the world around you. A world that goes on with or without you.

You hear the wind in the trees. The "floof" sound of a branch-fork of snow falling at a moment of chaos. A distant sound of some creature you cannot see and never will figure out exactly what it was that made that noise, made without regard or even awareness of you, standing there in the cold winds and darkness.

If you stand long enough, barely shifting your weight, you may start to contemplate the depth of the water, just inches beneath you, that you are held from by the grace of the cold. If it isn't cold enough, or you chose a bad spot, you might even become slowly aware of the sound of the ice beneath, slowly, inexorably, giving way to plunge you to your death.

There are times I am grateful for the coldness of this sphere. There are times I wish, for a change, the ice was thinner, the air warmer, and the waters deeper.