The heat's catching up with us, so let's have a picture from this past February. I went for a walk in the woods by the lake, the silent wintry woods by the depopulated frosted-over lake. Rounding a hillock I grew aware of an unseasonal soundtrack intruding on the deathly stillness: crickets.
Crickets? Had we had enough warm days for them to awaken? But even then it would be too early for them to start advertising for mates. Plus we'd just had a cold snap. Who the hell had set loose several thousand...
Wait, never mind.
It was ice by the shore, wafted by only the gentlest hint of wave motion, a thin, freshly-broken crust grinding, scratching, squeaking, and yes, chirping, millions of crystalline needles resonating in chorus. Not that I'd never heard grinding ice before, on rooftops, ground, by the seashore, on stormy lakes, on rushing rivers... but it's funny how a few changes in conditions, in thickness, wind intensity or exact temperature gradient, can make for a completely new experience.
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