Lacework at Sunrise

The frozen bark dust path crunched beneath my feet, the only sound -- save the occasional cah of the crow -- at the pond this morning.

As naturalist Edwin Way Teale observed one November morning in the 1950s, "An edging of ice, like frail lacework, runs around the quiet bays of the swamp stream. The hush . . . is complete."

I walked in that thirty-degree hush, marveling at "a thousand forms of crystalline art" that had been wrought overnight by my Creator, thankful that I had a moment to delight over the masterpieces on display in His intricate gallery.