Walking On A Frozen Lake Poem by David Welch

February and its much-vaunted chill
comes down with vengeance, and does what it will,
this lake that in summer jams full with boats
is now frozen over, nothing can float.

Most people stay home at this time of year,
and a whole new set of sportsmen appear,
seeing as I walk, the snowmobile tracks,
patterns in the snow, absent where it lacks.
There are lots of trails in the nearby woods,
lots say the sledding around here is good,
I see them out there, riding towards the sun,
a pack of black wolves, having lots of fun,
still here the hum of engines blaring far off,
I think I'd try it, if not for the cost…

A few yards ahead sit a small shanty,
a man drills the ice so vigorously,
uses a hand-augur, this guy's old school,
looking to find fish in waters so cool…
he has three lines out, now it's time to wait,
drink beer with his friends, shoot bull half the day,
hoping to see what his efforts will bring,
only the steadfast go for ice-fishing.

Beyond that are tracks, coyote from the looks
the lake now a highway, free of the woods,
you see where they loped, crossing back and forth,
to field and forest, always seeking more...
more rodents hiding beneath the white snow,
the ice makes it much easier to go.

In the distance a town, by the lakeside
blocks of ice formed in a castle do rise,
cut from this same lake, for the festival,
the kids run around it, so life's not dull,
and by that rises the toboggan chute,
its outrun is the plain of icy blue,
every year folks go down, sometimes quite far,
then walked back, amazed, by just where they are.

I can understand that, making my trek,
as I walk along, I must crane my neck
to take in the mountains, brilliant and clear,
unobscured because no trees grow out here,
the broad, sweeping vistas that we all love,
for me the feeling of that is enough,
most folks stay inside, but I love to take
long walks out upon a well-frozen lake.