It's a nice night out here. A recent bout of warm (for the Ice Kingdom) weather have melted and smoothed the sheets of flat, river-bordering ice like a natural zamboni. The skies are clear, but the first signs of frosty weather blow in the air, as powdery diamonds of ice dancing around in the lower atmosphere cast a halo of color around the bright, full moon. The stars shine bright and sharp, their glow undisrupted by anything save for the fine lunar lady that shares in their dance. The river flows at a steady, slow pace, with neither a trickle nor a roar, but rather, a sound in between, as if the water's motion is a strange sort of steady, relaxed, ongoing exhalation. The night is simultaneously calm and yet full of vigorous motion. I lean back against the sleek, lovely ice, and I listen to the hushed sounds of the wandering frost.
A thousand years ago or so, none of this was here. The city, which lies far below us, would be caught up in far more frantic motion. Unlike this natural symphony, the hustle and bustle of streetcars would rattle the air with the sound of rubber scraping pavement, crack the calm with blaring horns, choke the air with the toxic breath of ravenous, captive flames. A million city lights, mere pinpricks in the grand scheme of the cosmos, would dwarf the light of the stars, merely through the convenience of being closer and thus not having to cast their light through the grand barrier of the atmosphere. And the breath of the river would be a ragged wheeze, choked with refuse, hacking and coughing. And all this noise, noise, NOISE would rise to a crescendo, until the NOISE would be a ROAR of plane engines, an overwhelming RUSH of flame and gloriously lethal white light and heat…
A song played too loud has to get softer eventually, even if that means it stops altogether. Nowadays the song is different- much kinder to the ears.