‘Twas the night before Christmas, along Muddy Creek,
Where the water was dashing, the weather was bleak,
Cold winds were howling, and mercury plunged low—
Something was stirring and starting a show.
As the water receded, its splashes froze tight,
Causing wondrous formations to grow through the night.
Fallen logs and dead branches held strings of surprises,
Thousands of them—yet in similar sizes.
When the sunshine crept in through the cold Christmas air,
Its rays danced on crystalline bells hanging there.
What delight to the people who gathered to see!
They told all their friends—and even told me.
“Are you coming today?” asked the voice in my ear,
“I don’t mean to be pushy, but they’re melting, I fear.”
I had headed for town, with no camera in tow,
But this was important—we needed to go!
“Can you meet us?” I asked my dear wife on the phone.
“Bring cameras and coats—it’s cold to the bone.”
The girls whom we met when we got to the farm,
Pointed the way—’twas back of the barn.
And there they were, still glistening and bright,
Rows of ice bells—oh, what a delight!
Pictures were taken, and not just a few,
By Cheryl and Kevin and Adrian too.
“Where are you going? There’s more over there,”
The farmer remarked as he ruffled his hair.
“They say Beaver Creek, too, has ice bells to show.
We are rushing the light, and we really should go.”
Down by the bridge, we set up and shot.
The icy formations, though lovely, were not
As bell-like in shape, as the ones we’d just seen,
But we did glimpse a mink in the brush in midstream.