An Icy Path, a Fallen Tree, by Alina O’Donnell

I yanked the key out of the ignition and sat for a moment, reluctant to leave my heated car. It was one of those deceptive winter days that appears warm from indoors; the sky was cloudless and the sun shone resolutely, but the windchill was a vicious eight degrees. I left my phone on my seat, grabbed my journal, and stepped outside, wincing as the wind pinch my exposed skin. It was the kind of cold that slaps your cheeks until they’re raw and makes your fingers stiff. I trudged towards a small tract of forest that hugged the edge of the reservoir.

The snow that had amassed over the past few weeks had compounded into a stubborn, obstinate sheet of ice. I walked with trepidity, hearing the familiar crunching sound and watching as the ice collapsed into misshapen craters beneath each footstep. I walked until I could no longer hear the sounds of cars passing and looked around for the perfect place to reflect. When I finally found a patch of land that was free of mud, I sat down and leaned against a tree, stunned by the cold that cradled my backside.

So now what? What here is worth writing about? It seemed that all physical beauty, all of nature’s vitality, had been eviscerated by the sheen of snow and ice. Stalks of raspberry vine and a labyrinth of thornbush pierced through the snow like barbed wire, casting spindly silhouettes onto the surface below. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been outside with no other motivation than to, well, be outside. In the midst of a winter so harsh and unremitting, my time spent enjoying “nature” was limited to desperate sprints from my front door to my car.

The only sound I heard was the gentle rippling of a creek that meandered through the trees. Where the creek waned it had began to melt, the current reflecting light like shards of glass. The snow lining the creek’s edge glittered where beams of sunlight landed.

I was entirely alone, besides a fleeting visit from a small, brown bird that flitted from branch to branch frenziedly before retreating into the depths of the forest. As I followed its path with my eyes, I noticed a massive oak tree that had fallen, likely during one of the recent winter storms. It’s cavernous underside was laden with soil flesh and fraying roots that hung like Spanish moss. Dismembered twigs and branches were rotting beside the tree like the fallen soldiers in an abandoned battle scene. An assembly of maple and beech trees reigned over loyally. I smiled, remembering how delighted I would have been to find this upended tree as a child. I would have pretended that it was a regal drawbridge, or the plank of a pirate ship. I would have never contemplated a dead tree as anything other than a structure to climb on.

Now I saw it as a tragic hero, a site of ecological history. Even as it was perishing, the tree was still teeming with life. Lichen crept across the trunk, insects banqueted on flaking bark and small animals burrowed in its cavities and crevices. I wondered whether someone would collect its remains, or whether it would sit idly for years to come, as a cavalry of carpenter ants slowly dispersed its resources, eventually reducing it to compost.

I surrendered to my discomfort and relished the complete silence. Twenty minutes of quiet introspection later, I felt that I had become another fixture in this little piece of forest. I sat in that spot, musing and scribbling until the squeals of children sledding down the reservoir hill shattered my repose. It was only then that I noticed how cold I was- my fingers were a deep red, almost purple. I packed up my things and returned to my car, feeling calmer than I had in a long time.

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