Photo Essay: Observing a quiet little stream through the snow

It was a bitterly cold day and it was snowing too that day. I decided to take off on a walk around the nearby park. Snow, both types, settled and falling, deadens the sounds of the world and it's eerily quiet. So, while walking, to actually hear a small tinkling brook was very surprising to me.

Not too much snow on the left.

Nor on the right. The right bank was more snowy as I think the trees saved the left bank from being snowed in, but it was surprising to see running water, I thought that it would have frozen over by now.


The banks were bitterly cold and snow was still falling. The tree trunk was leaning over and the snow was creeping over the trunk. Almost like it was trying to climb up the tree.


In an open space, both banks were covered, and in comparison to the white snow, the water looked very dark, very cold, very still, extremely shivery. I thought that I wouldn't like to fall into it.


Still, large flakes of snow would fall and circular waves would form around the fallen snow flakes. For a moment I thought there were fish, but no, it was only snow. I am sure the fish were happily sleeping or moved to a warmer place.


Heading back to town over a small bridge which is overshadowed by snow laden boughs and trees. It was very quiet indeed, and if you listened carefully, you could almost hear the susurration of the snow flakes and the faint babble and tinkle of the stream running over the cold pebbles of the stream bed. Makes one go all ruminative and thoughtful. So as usual, went off to tbs to discuss this. She said that that the pictures reminded her of Robert Frost’s fire and ice poem, and I was reminded of this poem by Langston Hughes

It was that lonely day, folks,
When I walked all by myself,
***
Then I went down in the valley
And I crossed an icy stream,
And the water I was crossing
Was no water in a dream,
And the shoes that I was wearing
No protection for that stream.
Then I stood out on a prairie
And, as far as I could see,
Wasn't anybody on the prarie [sic]
That looked like me.

Langston is talking about the utter loneliness of being a black man in white America, something like the black dark stream in the middle of the snow. Mind you, I was hit by an irrelevant thought, given the rise of Hispanics, he will need to think about the brown colour as well now, but I digress.

I also found another poem about this theme by Joachim Gasquet and I am putting just the first piece down here.

Why do we live?
O my body, my eyes, my mouth,
Why do we live?
To breathe day’s farewell in the darkening south,
To bring to the quest of a virgin’s drouth,
The draught we can give;
To train in the dark of an icy stream
The branch of a dark laurel,
While dimly we watch, in the depths of our dream,
Virgin caressed by shades auroral;
To ride a savage horse,
To breast a torrent’s course…

Full slide show '>here.