At Sprague Pond, or Shall I Say, Almost at Sprague Pond by Zella Morgan

First Place, 6-9 Grade Non-Fiction

It is mid January in midcoast Maine, and the cool, bitter air tickles the tips of my cheeks and chills the inside of my nose. Our class trudges along through the soft, powdery snow of the wide, expansive path. A classmate tries to follow my footsteps, but sadly fails to retrace the complex array of big, oval, toothed prints in the fluffy snow. Once in the woods, the trail narrows to a smaller path of fresh, untouched snow. The sun's rays paint a spotted picture of dappled light on the white, glistening frozen ground below. The snow dusted trees fill the forest and line the trail, reflecting the sun's vibrant glow. My snowshoes, weighted with lead, drag me down with every step, extracting every ounce of strength from within my tired limbs.

After a speedy snack, us fifth and sixth graders from Brightfield continue on our way. The wind whooshes through the trees with a great roar. The buds and twigs of a few nearby deciduous trees dance in a wavy pattern of bends and flutters against the backdrop of a bright blue, cloudless sky. The sun splashes pools of light onto the cold fresh fallen blanket of snow. I decide to take off my snowshoes and triumphantly loosen the straps. My feet feel so free and light, like they are going to float right out from under my body and up into the crisp, clear winter sky. A friend helps me to use ski poles to pick at the clumps of ice frozen on the bottom of a classmate's snowshoes. We stab it, and jab it, and poke it, until finally the ice gives up its weary fight, falling away from the shoes in utter surrender, freeing them of their uninvited guests. 

The exciting, blustery day has come to a close as we hop back into the van on our way to the next adventure. A new piece of knowledge gently floats into my mind from the poem “Invitation” by Mary Oliver, like a helium balloon going up and up until it disappears behind a soft, white, puffy cloud:

Their strong blunt beaks

      Drink the air

as they strive

     melodiously

        not for your sake

   and not for mine 

and not for the sake of winning

    But for the sheer delight and gratitude—

        believe us, they say,

it is a serious thing

Just to be alive

   on this fresh morning 

        in this broken world.