the deepening ground

When they closed the schools for two days due to the extreme cold that dropped temperatures below -10 degrees Fahrenheit (without the wind chill), I knew the creek would freeze. And just as expected, I knew my ten-year-old would want to venture out onto the frozen waters. It had been a long day at work and my wife and two sons were heading to Pittsburgh for a speech and debate tournament after school. Nothing within me really wanted to adventure, but I am grateful that he persisted and I surrendered. I knew I’d find peace on Wolf Creek, but I didn’t know I’d find heron prints and hoarfrost. What a joy to pause at the frozen edge and listen to the waters flowing between the rocks and ice.

I wonder how many serendipitous moments I have missed, how many heron prints and hoarfrosts have gone unnoticed in the relentless, unforgiving current of life?

Of Herons and Hoarfrost: Winter on Wolf Creek

By Vincent H. Anastasi 2025

I.
Depending on the impurities,
water freezes at thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit,
frost bite threatens soon after
(depending on the length of exposure),
and hypothermia sets in when the core body temperature
drops below ninety-five degrees;
drop below seventy and death comes softly singing lullabies.

One can only imagine the drowsiness turned death
for the yellow house finch
stiff outside my back door
resting in the freshly fallen snow.
It's ten below — we should stay inside.
But the creek so rarely freezes over
and my son's intrepid spirit
woos me out of doors for half an hour before dinner.

II.
We are not the first to traverse the frozen stream;
wildlife — both animal and human —
has left its mark:
heron tracks mix with broken ice refrozen
where reckless kids wreaked havoc.
Snow carpets most of the ice, but in places,
it's dark and clear as a night sky with snowflake constellations.

My son and I walk on water
while fish flit beneath us more free,
shielded from the heron and hook.
The creek's current pulses life
and we follow it to where hoarfrost blooms on the ice,
a thousand spiked blossoms
that fade in the slightest breath:
the serendipity for spurning comfort and warmth.

III.
I begin to feel the cold —
first my fingers, then my toes.
I know cold can kill — this creek has taken life.
But so can safety's slow atrophy
stiffening into rigor mortis,
risking nothing.
Rather than retreat, we press on,
tapping our way to the edge.

We strike the thin ice with our staff
causing it to calve and float downstream
where the ice rafts lodge
or disappear beneath the next glassy shelf.
In the stillness, the water sings in fluid tongues,
and despite the cold and cars passing on the bridge above,
I grow warm and rest in peace.