Poplar Bluff Beach

The ice on Lake Erie always breaks up by March 15. Mom said she didn't think it could possibly happen this year. The day before it looked utterly intransigent, but a wind came overnight and, sure enough, the ice had moved out by Thursday morning. My daughters went to stay with my parents Monday to Friday, so Brenna had the benefit of that fine weather to beachcomb. On Wednesday their thermometer hit 22°C (74°F), a good five degrees warmer than Guelph as usual. The snowdrops bloomed.

Brenna returned to the dilapidated fishing hut where we saw an animal carcass last year, probably left by a coyote. She retrieved the skull, now clean. We can't remember what kind of animal, but it's a small carnivore, the skull most resembling a raccoon's.

I've taken a four-day weekend to spend with them. Thursday evening after work I drove down. Yesterday morning, before returning home, I made the mandatory pilgrimage along the beach, setting out with Brenna and Emma, the golden retriever. Emma dropped and rolled on the sand, leaving frenzied wing marks like a devil's. Grandad eventually caught up with us, and Marian in turn.

Night had brought a fresh flotilla of pack ice, rustling restlessly on low waves under the sun. Often as it erodes it forms vertical filaments. A few mini glaciers hulked in the distance, blinding white cattle grazing the horizon.