Eyes on the Small

The days grow shorter, and for all that, sunlight in the highlands (when there is sunlight) is fierce, bathing everything it touches in a stark and burning light, the bare whiskery trees, cold hillsides and weathered fences. On overcast days like this one, the same hillsides are mute, amorphous and cloaked in mist - they seem to be waiting for something, perhaps slumber and the peace of deep snow.

What is there to see here in the north at this "betwixt and between" time of the year? There is no blanket of fleecy snow over the wide fields now, and they are a study in brown and gray, the grasses and wild grains friable and crumbling easily in the arid sub-zero temperatures and the north wind.

On our walks, Cassie and I stay moving, and we try to present as small a target for the wind as possible, ever thankful for the shielding presence of beech groves and old hedgerows here and there. My hood and collar are turned up again the wind, and my eyes are in constant but unhurried motion, my gloved hands resting easy on the camera around my neck.

Along the fence at the edge of the eastern field, golden brome grass is blowing to and fro, and the goldenrod which stuffed up my senses earlier in the year is splendid stuff indeed - each and every tuft is is a tiny universe full of fluffy stars. Emaho...