Ice is a seasonal issue for chicken keepers. When the temperature sinks below thirty two degrees, we trek out to the coops with warm water, or hook up electric heaters for the containers. Chickens must have fresh water available whatever the weather may bring. It is intriguing to me that when I pour hot water into a frozen pan the heat wins out. And the chickens can drink deeply.  Of course after a few hours the frigid air again holds the liquid hostage, and I turn on the kettle once more. Because I care about my birds.

The other day I read a scathing comment on social media. In response a dear woman wrote back with compassion. She showed more grace than I could have, given the tirade. But the original writer responded with still more icy blasts. He did not soften. I ached for the woman who was being jabbed, and hugged her the next time we met. 

"I am fine. I am more worried about him." Was this true? Her warmth was not chilled by another person's accusation? Her heart was resilient enough to withstand the animosity?

Ice is water whose particles have stopped moving. Ceased to flow, tumble over the rocks, or carry fish to the sea. 

A man named Frost wrote that it would be sufficient for the destruction of the world. Yet every day I watch the power of warmth pouring in, to melt the frozen buckets.