Logan’s Meadow LNR, Cambridge: Today, where there had been mud and water, there was ice, and there were young people, intent on breaking the ice. Joyous sounds of transformation filled the small wooded park. Sheets of irregularly broken ice were made to stand at all angles to the ground. Some were thin and tapered like bat wings, or dragon’s breath. Some were huge heavy thickset bouncers, ready to freeze out newcomers. The people held a mixture of regret for the beauty of what had been there, the way the previously undisturbed ice had reflected the planes of fallen and collected stuff, full of twigs, nettles and frosted grass, and relief at being able to make, large, in three dimensions, from the remnants of a day, a day of half lives spent indoors in preservation lockdown. Their shouts met in energy over the now-raised space. I was relieved to think about the many states of water that were held in the air now, and the change, boding Spring, like the shadow of a moustache on a 13 year old.