Slow moving streams and the edges of the tanks were still frozen, almost a week after the big front. I know it’s unpopular, but I really like a good strong cold front. I like to hear the wind howl, to watch my breath turn to clouds of smoke, sometimes within literal minutes of a front. Last week’s blast of cold air was like that. One minute you’re sitting on your slightly chilly porch, the next comes a slamming noise as the front hits the side of the house like a freight train. The temperature goes from mild to absolutely deadly in a half hour of wind-driven abandon.

There’s something about taking a walk after a really big front. The quietness that comes after all the wind, the way the light itself just looks cold–these things make me contemplative. Even full sunlight and blue skies don’t stop the sort of sinister feeling everything has after a big front; even on a sunny day, that kind of cold can kill you. I don’t know if it’s because the wind whips the blood up or because of the light itself, but I tend to notice small things when it’s freezing outside.Things like ice patterns in a mud puddle or patches of moss that seem like vibrant velvet hideouts from the harsh wind (if you were small enough!).

I love to study frozen water, to watch the way clumps of ice sparkle when the light hits them. They look like jewels. The ancient mystics taught that water holds the memories of creation, that it’s like the record book of existence. Water is always moving, rising up into the air, failing back again, changing shape–unless it’s frozen. I guess if the mystics were right, when it’s frozen, that would be when time stands still. Maybe that’s where we get the phrase ‘frozen in time’. True or not, for a moment, looking at the icy creek, watching how the branches of trees darken the frozen water into an almost blueish green path that seems to beckon and glow like the driveway to some ancestral palace, I wonder.

Ice and moss often go together, maybe because they both stand out after a storm. They like the cold. They both grow where it’s cooler and wet. The bends of streams, where the water is deep and often shaded, usually give the best displays. The bright green of moss seems brighter in the cold, and together with ice, it’s an extraordinary display. An icy stream winding its way deep into a brushy forest, with its banks lined and dotted with deep green patches of moss is magical. It reminds me of something in a fairy tale.

It’s easy to get restless and bored, but there is always something new to see, even right where you are, if you learn how to look. People travel the world to see new things in new places, but when the world around changes for a few days, it’s the same sort of thing without the expense and hassle. Ice and moss in the cold can turn a mud puddle by the side of the road into a wonderland, glowing with tiny ice spikes that act like moats around a richly hidden castle. They form islands and bridges, moats and spires that no explorer has ever seen, and probably will never see again.

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Diane Adams is a local journalist whose columns and articles appear periodically on BrownwoodNews.com