At the end of the road, a mountain lake mirrored the clear day’s colors and shadows. A snowball had been skittered onto the calm surface and perched there still; the water had frozen black and magic, as smooth and solid as glass.

She walked out onto the slick surface of the ice. Lying facedown, she gazed at the green fronds of plants growing at the bottom of the lake. The thick ice was clear as air but cold against her forehead, frozen blunt and solid, with no give at all–it rang then, a fabulous sound, and settled again. The rifts were long and steady rays, or they burst, celestially, or crisscrossed delicately like crackled glaze.