fire and ice

George's skate's rattled over the orange peel ice. It had snowed, rained, sleeted, fogged, hailed, and then froze a deep life arresting freeze before he laced up and headed out onto the big lake. He eyed a sheen of vast smoothness across the lake, in the cove in front of Rabinowitz's place. He caught a tail wind and headed there, the blades of his skates chattering loudly into the cold blue air. Suddenly the ice mirrored and he entered a cove cut into the forest.
Hshhhhhhhhhhhh...
His movements were suddenly soundless, like a bird gliding in a current. A fish in water. Lubricated by the coldest February air.
Then his cellphone rang.
"George?"
"Yes, this is George. Who is this?"
"It's Peter. I'm in front of the Parkington place, and I went through the ice. I'm up to my armpits. Can you come and get me?"
"I'll be right there," said George, "Your phone is still working?"