Transported to, and yet very much within, another Anchorage on a magical Tuesday, yet far from lost in seemingly another world, remote from an Anchorage of rancor, discord and enmity, I joyously wallow — yet struggle not — to my waist through clouds and pillows of wondrous white fluff. My bearing is of no consequence, for I am aimless in this heavenly scene. The magical plumes float and flee and garnish all of my being that is exposed or covered.
Then hark, the trills and rhapsodic strains of “my” enchanting American dipper couple. Dipping and bobbing, on thinnest ice shelf or trembling twig, then, unflinching, to dive beneath the frigid, churning waters, there to prowl and scour the bottom for edibles, and then to pop up and, bobbing, resume their ceaseless quest. And again they harmonize. Ah, such loveliness and mystery. While overhead in the dense swirl of flakes soars raven, croaking and ever-confident, scanning his world cloaked in white. And where, indeed, am I in this near-total silence? For today, in the very heart of this city, even the thrum, the clatter and the din of internal combustion are surely muted and muffled by this dazzling, brilliant substance. Truly magical, this one day in our city.
And as adapted from William Wordsworth (1770-1850): “Then, sing, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! We, in thought, will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts today Feel the gladness of this Day.”
— Peter Mjos
Anchorage
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