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For an adult, I spend an inordinate amount of time staring into puddles. It’s a habit I developed as a kid, when I discovered the calm, comforting effect that water had upon my mood. I keep a reflective water bowl in my garden —at the threshold between secret oasis and area of parked car/tractor chaos— and I pause there every day on my way in and out of the studio. One of my great joys is the day the pickerel frog returns to his seasonal home there every spring.
I wonder about the wild creatures in winter. How do they survive? Are the frogs stirring beneath the cold earth when January thaws? Where do the brook trout go when the surface glazes over? Do they sleep? Do they dream of summer and the warm glint of golden sunlight on their beautiful scales?
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