The first of March came quiet, unlike a roaring lion.  Nancy, my cousin, and Fernando

from the Azores took the road that hugged the Canadian banks of the mighty Niagara

from the Peace bridge to Lake Ontario's open greeting at the shops of Niagara on the Lake.

 We stopped briefly after passporting our way at Fort Erie's view of the Buffalo skyline.

 The boom was up that held the frozen waters in place to buffer the melt of Spring

that would send the ice floes on their journey down river endangering the bridge supports.

 Fernando obliged to driving the distance.  It was his first visit to Niagara Falls. 

The willows that loved the river's wetness had a tinge of gold that would be greened

 by the warming sun of March's good-by to Winter.  Tufts of white dotted a very blue sky,

a welcome sight in this winter's dull days.  Shortly after Chippewa we stopped where

 the river fell in thunderous roar.   Its mist painted a fantasy of frozen white

on guard rail and leaf-bared tree. 

 

 

 

The Falls of summer had to work hard to compare with this incredible whiteness. 

It was 20 degrees and our bodies bundled and our noses red, but the beauty of the day

 cancelled any deep discontent.  It was a fun day on a First Sunday that said hello to Lent.

 We walked where Indian tribal eyes first discovered one a the great wonders

 of a God-made world.  Freezing fingers clicked cameras and beauty sang a song

 of white ice.  My cousin Nancy and Fernando were gracious enough to pose here

for many a picture where scene told the story of mighty water; there, where

 the background  spoke  of God's unseen hand. Mortals could do better than

disclaim the authenticity of such a  Creative Hiddenness. 

 

Though urged to continue our breathless gazes, we decided to lunch at the restaurant

 at the foot of the gorge.  Nancy's praises sung of "cool" sights of cold as we lunched

 still fixing our eyes through windows and forking unusually good food for a touristy site.

 

We continued along the "river road" to see an unfloraled clock, the power generating

mega-turbines of the diverted waters of Niagara, and the browned vineyards that

dotted the shores of the gorge where autumn would bring the grapes that stirred

 the imagination.  One of the conundrums of Fernando was the north flow of the waters

 of the Great Lake.

 

We travelled back on the American side quite satisfied with our cold journey

of warmed hearts.  It was a good God Day.