When Whit and I went out last night, we heard a crackling sound

     We quickly heard the crack-

     ling sound of snowfall on 

     our coats,  but as we looked, 

     and looked again, we could 

     see nothing dancing off our 

     sleeves, or settling on the 

     ground. The constant shower

     of cracks persisted, but no-

     thing fell, even as we did

     feel it; and as we looked

     about, we could see every

     branch encased in ice, ach-

     ing in their sudden casts,

     all but snapping in their

     helplessness. You can hear

     a tree in pain, and feel it

     as innocuous little blows.

Inevitably, Whit, who enjoys crouching in the shelter of a branch at various times, plunging his inquires where they carry him, simply sheared one off in passing under-neath. It couldn't be helped, but he withdrew from his little fortress as if it were still there, deferring to its memory, it seemed - but probably to his own, of how he got there. He is the gentlest of beings; we all are. But there is ice at times, isn't there?