Dahozhoni Meadow Here where I once

were this summer he would bring her to the gilded glade where lotus and lilypad flowers grew in lazy water; but it was winter, and the landscape had been transformed into bitter bleakness. 

she says nothing as she follows, but she does not have to. 

he traverses down the bank and across the narrow strip of solid ice. there he listens for a drawn pause, absorbing the creaking of ice floe and the groan of the river beneath. 

a splash from the opposite bank diverts his attention. hunkering down, soto creeps forward until at last the round body of a grazing beaver comes into view.