The prairie is dead still this morning. My boots print noiseless tracks in roadside powder. A pink glow rims the horizon, but the sky is still spattered with stars. Frost crystals twinkle in the moonlight. The frozen lake is speaking again. Creaks and "blurbps" reverberate from depths beneath the ice, sonorous and eerie, like whales talking. I feel the echoes more than hear them. The power lines reply with icy extraterrestrial buzzes and clicks. An owl comments from trees nearby, adding a quavery staccato to the conversation. I pause and listen. They're speaking my language.
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