I had to walk to the station today - failed to allow enough time for a much slower walk because of the treacherous patches of ice on ungritted pavements (I have a terror of my feet losing their grip on the ground. As a child I longed and pleaded for roller skates, but was too terrified to use them).
Why do we call ice treacherous, though? Ice is innocent: it is what it is, product of the miracles of chemistry, physics and geometry that bring it into being. The fact that unwitting contact with ice can cause bruises and broken bones is part of the surd of suffering we live with in this fallen world - for now. Maybe, like the lion and the lamb, we will coexist without harm on God's Holy Mountain.
Today the ice forced me to pay attention. There was snow last night and it sparkled on the branches as the Sun warmed it, dropping to the ground in moist clumps like Pauline Baynes' illustrations of the thaw-that-was-really-spring in The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe.
The Sun gleamed down from above a bank of heavy snow-cloud. Some Canada geese flew by 'over and over announcing [my] place in the family of things' (Mary Oliver). And oh, the colour of the sky! Blue? Grey? Yes, but of shades that I cannot name.