A man skates on a frozen pond. The ice is dark and clear; the man glides along. Below him, the faces of a multitude stare up. The man is skating over them. He is skating over his ancestors. He can see the details of their features as he looks down, whirling along.
A creek winds off; he takes it. The skating here is marvelous, thrilling, a kind of Eden. The man follows the sheer black thread as it winds between the banks. On either side bare woods spread in perpetual winter. He draws his scarf closer. The milky bodies slip by beneath him. Mile after mile he moves along, without effort, in a trance of motion; not a sound rises from anywhere in this marvelous landscape.