Today tiny icicles hang from the swing-set like clear beads dangling from a lampshade. Every tree, every fence post, every rooftop shimmers like glass. On a nearby hill, the tall, slender white pines bow toward a stand of silverstruck maples. They take up a graceful dance to the wind’s eerie music. They clatter like a string of Christmas lights hitting the hardwood, their limbs encased in icy coats. I don’t ever recall seeing or hearing anything quite like it. It is both intriguing and eerie. I wonder how many branches will break under the weight of the unwanted burden.