A few days ago a hawk flew overhead as I was driving to town. I assumed it would be a red-tail, but as I got closer I could see the patterning on the wings was wrong. It tilted, and dark patches on its front gave it away as a rough-legged hawk, one of several birds that winter here and are most familiar with our area in its bleak aspect. The species is a refugee from the north through the action of evolution, but individuals experience the brief arctic summer and never see ours.

This past week, the days were below freezing. Freezing in this case refers to the freezing point of liquid water. As I walked along the pond before work, all of us living things were trying to ward off or control the creep of ice. All of us are made up of cells and of large proportions of water, from the white-throated sparrows hiding among shrub branches to the mice and squirrels who made the tracks criss-crossing the pond’s surface. The shrubs themselves have lost their water rich leaves.

When I walked the boardwalk across the street, I half expected my passage to be preceded by shrieking frogs as in summer, but the pools are mostly ice-bound. My footsteps make muffled crunches. Above, trees creak and branches rustle. The red dragonflies which used to alight on the railings have wandered elsewhere. The frogs are tucked away in the bottom of pools deep enough not to freeze solid. They’re taking advantage of the fact that solid water is lighter than very cold liquid water, which sinks to the bottom away from the cold air. Perhaps to them only our growing season is real, while our winter is less than a dream.