My walk to work was cold and quiet. It was three degrees below zero and the wind cut straight through my coat. I crossed the bridge over the Yahara, the sun in my eyes and the cold stinging my too-pink cheeks. Cars whooshed past me on the street, their drivers toasty and warm.

I stopped on the bridge, as I always do, leaning over the ledge to the river below. Each day is a different scene hidden from the cars above: ducks preening, waves lapping, the sun rising from the lake like fire. But today was an image I'd never seen before. Steam rose from the river like swirling smoke, sunlit like a morning ghost.

Sometimes it pays to go slowly.