The winter still pond holds a summer secret,"" muses Shecter's little boy as he skates alone, and this fragile little winter mood piece is organized--doggedly so, unfortunately--around his quest for the secret. Unsurprisingly, he receives no answer when he asks the trees (""even the icy wind will not take the secret from them if they do know""--and why would you expect it to?) and animals. . . and later, indoors, the toby jug on the mantel, and, good grief, the cucumbers pickling in jars on the cellar shelf. When even his books don't have the answer the little boy looks out the window and sees his own reflection, which doesn't answer either. ""Reflections are noiseless borrowers,"" he observes for the second time. ""And now I know the secret. I won't tell. Secrets are meant to be kept."" This one, alas, is likely to be well kept, as that repeated phrase means more to him than it will to others, and on a literal level his behavior doesn't make much sense.