A thin skim of ice in the wetlands. A few swans stopped over on their trip south. A raven did some tricks, flipping around like an oily rag caught in the wind, before straightening out and heading for the mountains. I did the same, but without the tricks. The creek up top is frozen over. The ice is above the creek bed and sounds like breaking glass when the dogs walk over it. Underneath the creek is nowhere to be found. It could be a thaw in March before it returns, about the same time as those swans, I reckon. The season is changing. We are moving from trying to keep the beer cold enough, to trying to keep it from freezing. Luckily I am an expert at both.