"But we didn't talk about being lost, while they sat there in front of the fire and toasted their toes. We talked about being found, which is altogether different. Being found is being with friends and knowing your family will come and get you. Being found is a fire and a cup of hot soup and knowing that Grandmother won't scold because your pants are soaked and your boots are full of ice water. Being found is being able to smile again, even if you can't really laugh until tomorrow."
"The ice went out of the river as quietly as mist, with no fuss whatever. Now it flows free and calm - and polluted. It is a bilious green even at sunny midday, when it should have a tinge of blue even if it were roiled and muddy with early runoff. But it flows, and a few mornings ago I saw the first black ducks on it. They looked rather bewildered at the quality of the water, flavored with paper-mill sludge and Massachusetts sewage; but I suppose any open water is welcome on a migratory flight. The ducks used to nest by the dozen along the river, but the past few years their numbers have steadily decreased."
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