In the mornings,
my siblings and I would seek out the molehills
to stomp on the needle ice—
a strange and wondrous phenomenon.

Loosened soil, nature-tilled
by the mole or shrew,
let the groundwater rise upward and freeze,
forming delicate pillars we could crush beneath our boots.

They made the most satisfying crunch,
while ghost-white puffs of breath
froze in the air as our lungs exhaled.

It was our job to enjoy
the natural world’s small miracles,
and we took that task to heart—
very seriously,
all winter long.

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