Last winter I was driving through South Amherst, past some of those enormous old stone train bridges that lurk in the outwaters of the Connecticut, not far below my home; that make you stop and struggle to imagine how people ( and oxen, or horses ) ever made them, cutting and then hoisting huge dense square-cut rocks, so long ago. Fitting them together with the stability and strength that would hold up a passing freight engine, and train.
I had jumped out of my car to watch the stream pass under the old rock forms; then wandered to the other side to look out on the winter-swollen stream, for the most part iced over, the colors subtle and yet radiant even in a darkened cold afternoon.
And there was a Beaver, scampering along, pausing by delectable shoots, to stand on their back legs, and happily feed.
Oh, they caught sight of me, trying hard to be still, and still even my breath, visible in the freezing cold.
But they remained unbothered ; so I stood, full of delight, watching them with their early dinner, as the sun began its descent.
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