Once upon a sub zero night, paper thin ice formed like crystalline skin atop the perfectly calm water of the Omena Bay, in Northern Michigan. In the morning the lake began to wake and breathe and roll around a little. Its expanding and contracting lungs pushed the ice ashore where it shattered like fine china smashing against the stones then buckling and sliding back over itself.
I could not move my feet. Could not take my eyes off the shuffle happening at the edge of the lake. Could not walk away from the snapping crackling sound of it. I was wholly captivated. Mesmerized by the sight and sound of the gathering and sliding of sharp-edged broken shards.
Ice heave. This is the remarkable ordinary.
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