Nestled between lakeside boulders, my stony body wears drifted veils of bubbled ice that drape themselves over and beyond me. Successive layers of frozen water have etched a daguerreotype portrait of arrested lava, once-fluid anger trapped by a season so heavy, so cold.
Behind my nape, the thickness of the ice is greater, and mysterious swirls of gray-blue shadows entwine like ashen tendrils of smoke. From my chin, crystal shards have grown into a wild beard that flows from the seam where my edges meet the lake’s beach below.
A ghostly poncho of ice glazes me, leaving a solitary bare patch on my crown: an egg-shaped tonsure melted by the sun. In a few weeks, spring’s solar ascent will dissolve my obscuring cloak entirely, but for now I am content with the small oval that lies exposed to the elements.
I feel certain that one day soon, an exhausted bird will warm its feet on my brow. Resting after miles of migration, the bird will sit for a spell all hunkered down into its own feathers. It will turn its beak towards the water and flex its wing muscles to the humming thwack of high winds, the same forces that scour my quiet skin and promise eventual transformation into forgiving sand.