the passing of the ice

i find a place on my journey home where i can slide down the banks to the river each and every day. they are sometimes leaf-covered. sometimes muddy. sometimes steep enough that the journey down to the river's edge and the journey back are little adventures in their own right. these days i am searching for ice. ice that has coated a boulder, a snagged piece of driftwood, anything. i don't know why. it just seems right to hold the moment of the passing of the ice.