Yesterday was one of those snow-stormy I’m-not-going-out Saturdays so I built a fire and started writing a letter, longhand, but it came out looking like I’d knitted it, all messy and stringy and I didn’t feel like it anyway and then something shifted and I wanted to be outside, so full snow gear later I went out and started walking down the big hill to the lake and it’s a long way down through gorgeous shifting layers of colour and when I got down to the harbour the ice was thick but broken and I couldn't see the rink but spotted what I thought was a dead goose until I saw it was a forgotten goalie pad and I kept walking through the forest where the ground was dirt here and deep snow there and by the time I got to the lighthouse where the lake opens up I was warm and there was one little duck hurtling around in the waves like he was the only one kept his promise and then a huge rectangle of ice floated from the harbour, slowly with swing, edging itself into the lake proper and when I realized it was the rink I said to the duck well you don’t see that every day do you.
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