Threads of winter have woven in the creek; in the numbing cold of our morning walks the water is frozen, sheathed with crystal, inlaid with crisscrossed tracery. Beneath, the rocky bed is decorated with the chocolate and gold of sycamore leaves, their edges blurred by the icy covering. The only signs of movement are where the creek descends, and water has transgressed the ice, clambering over rock piles: determined, urgent.
I am reminded that within the stillness is activity, and within activity, stillness. The creek appears stationary, silent, peaceful: frozen in space. Yet within what I perceive, the water still moves constantly from here, to there. Action and stillness, inseparable, united, in this small piece of time and space.
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