Snow, collecting on the deck boards.
It’s bitterly cold. About minus 13 Celsius, wind chill minus 25. Winter brings different rhythms, different harmonies, different melodies to the ear and eye. Difficult though it may be, and is, to appreciate the music, it’s important to be open, to accept, the different tune.
Snow, collecting on the roof of our shed.
. . . no, not moonrise. Moonset, gauzed by nearly invisible fine, falling snow.
This sycamore limb at Rock Glen beckoned, asking to be photographed and shared.
Cirrus swept across the sky on a recent morning, adding texture and colour to the canvas of the sky.
This season’s colours are muted. The sky is often cloudy, blue-grey for days at a time. Fields are shades of tan, brown, dun. Dull? Perhaps, to some sensibilities. My sensitivity to shades and grades of colour is heightened, sharpened. I try to appreciate these muted scenes for their own beauty.
This halo, as all are, is a product of reflection and refraction.
It is also a product of art.
A variety of shapes and textures graces the late afternoon sky, as the sun blazes one last time.
We had a bumper crop of tomatillos this year. A curious thing we discovered is that the husk can dry, leaving only the veins as a fragile, beautiful remnant. This is preserved, framed by photography as well preserved and framed in my mind.
Extraordinarily delicate hues touch early evening cirrus, contrasting with the bold green of the cedars.
previouslytexan 