Ice Road
Each February my grandfather drove the ice road across the lake to the far shore, the truck groaning, the whole white world holding its breath beneath the tires.
He said the ice talks if you listen: a long crack like a door far off, a hum that settles in your teeth. Most people hear danger. He heard a map.
I rode beside him once, nine years old, my mittens pressed against the dashboard, counting the orange flags that marked the safe path until the far trees grew from a pencil line
into pines with snow on their shoulders. Now the winters come late and leave early. The road opens for weeks, not months. I still listen to ice. It says less every year.
In "Ice Road," which phrase gives the world a human action?