A beaver sits on the icy edge of a pond in a watercolor painting.
The fog made its slow retreat into the distance, exposing drenched trees and soggy ground. Beads of water lined branches and stems. The rain that fell in the early morning hours melted most of the snow. But in the darkest parts of the woods, spots of dense snow and stubborn ice remained.
The ice over the pond was thinning, betraying the dark water beneath its increasingly transparent surface. A trio of beavers was there. Two sat on the edge of the ice that lined an area of open water. A third was swimming. With a slap of the tail, one beaver made a smooth dive into the cold water. Its nose resurfaced followed by its eyes and then its ears. It swam back and forth while the remaining beaver watched. Soon, with another splash, all three beavers were in the water.
One by one, they quietly disappeared. With their submergence came a stillness. As the minutes passed, anticipation of their resurfacing also left. They swam away, their course hidden from those on land, under the cover of water and ice.