The Ice Storm

I never saw a wild thing 
sorry for itself. 
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough 
without ever having felt sorry for itself.

David Herbert Lawrence.

 

The ice storm was beautiful and terrible. It crippled our trees and set our region at a stand still- cold, immobile, and in awe at the kind of natural acts we so rarely see here.

All night we listened helplessly to the crash of trees as the weight of the ice snapped them in half and ripped them apart, branch by branch.  The scene the next morning was unbelievable. Our hearts ached for the trees, in disbelief that nature would do this to her own. 

The roads still look like this, lined with destruction no one will ever finish clearing. I wonder how long it will be before we no longer notice it there, no longer notice the roads lined with scattered pieces of trees, and forget how the proudest once stood, whole and flourishing.

The destruction is in every direction - undeniable and overwhelming.  And yet, it's not the way of nature to linger on it as we do. There's no pity in storms, no sorrow in the destruction they leave. Leaves will bud out this spring, proud and unaware of the winter's cruelty. Trees will not ache for their lost limbs or fallen neighbors. Those that do not make it become part of the earth again and nourish the saplings that will replace them.

The ones that survive will continue to stand strong, no matter the weather, and stretch their branches towards the sky.