When it snows in winter
I am as happy as a child waking up to snow-covered landscape as I did this morning. No need to think of work, driving, black ice. Instead, I went out to snap a few photos, of which the one above is the Ansel Adams enhancement.
We had an inch and a half or so of snow, in a year that is different from last year’s mildness. The cold has made it last and I wonder how the horses are faring in the field.
I have begun a new job, with a long commute. For part of the journey I need to drive and be mindful of weather; the other part is where I am passenger, recipient to daydream and reading, the necessary components of composition. As a child, I loved to gaze out the car windows as the Midwestern cornfields swept past, regally bowing. I was not an “I” but part of a symphony of my own imagination. What is transport and season but movement?