By Jonathan Shipley I’m writing these lines when it’s -8º outside. I just walked the marsh in the pre-dawn light. It was cold. Quite cold. Bundled up, though, I could make my way on the desolate trails: beneath the empty trees; alongside the frozen ponds; up the hillocks of prairies; down the frozen tumps; through the crystalline landscape towards the car; and back home. And, as I write this (warm now in a sweater, cozy now on the sofa), I think of how cold things can be and

The Northern Lights over Cherokee Marsh are beautiful. I walk the paths, stumbling in the dark, looking up; always looking up to see that indescribable cosmic majesty.

I’m not the first to be thankful for a November walk amidst the drooping oaks, the rain-wet sedges, the bog birch. Far from it. There are the turkeys, for one; the deer bounding off the main trails, their telltale white tails flying up before becoming lost in autumnal camouflage; the sandhill cranes gliding overhead and caterwauling in the glades.

As I walk in the fog across Cherokee Marsh, I can’t help thinking about time and changing seasons and the mysteriousness of life and, ultimately, death.