Winter. It is ending.
Just yesterday, walking down the riverside walk, as it passes through the The Forks, I found this sad reminder that winter is passing its baton onto spring. Trapped in the exchange are these few remaining blocks of bluish ice set on a barely frozen Assiniboine River.
Just last week, I walked comfortably around these blocks, down a river-top path at the centre of the river. In February I likely sat on one of these blocks. Then, they were furniture set out at the centre of a winter palace.
Then, it was a minus twenty night. Around me, walls of ice boulders glowed all hues of blue, green and red. Around me, a crowd of music lovers huddled in the cold, clad in their bulkiest, warmest winter garb. On the glassy stage, Norwegian musician Terje Isungset made ethereal sounds on ice instruments of his own devising, accompanied by the no-less magical chanting of vocalist Maria Skranes.
It was a glorious reverie of ice, light, snow, sound, dark. Winter at its best.
And now it is gone. May spring be as beautiful.