Leaves crunching underfoot or rattling like sabres in in the wind, ice crystals limning cedar fence rails along the ridge, blowsy plumes of frosted field grasses on the edge of the western field—all are fine representations of the season and plangent leitmotifs in the windy musical work that is early winter.
The season marches onward, settling slowly, and with many deep sighs, into the subdued tints of early winter: soft bronzes, creams, beiges and silvery greys, small splashes here and there of winey red, burgundy, russet, a midnight blue almost iridescent in its sheen and intensity, but oh so fragile.
Highland frosts make themselves known as sugary drifts over old wood and on fallen leaves almost transparent in their lacy textures. An owl's artfully barred feather lies in thin sunlight under the fragrant cedars down by the spring and seems to be giving off a graceful pearly light of its own. The weedy residents of field and fen are cavorting in fringed and tasseled hats.
One needs another lens and tuning for winter, a different sort of vision, a song in a different key. The senses are performing a seasonal shift of their own, moving carefully into the consideration of things small, still and muted, but complete within themselves and perfect, even when they are cold and wet. There is light in the world, and she must remember that. Her camera, of course, never forgets.
3 comments:
For all its coldness, there is something "homey", inviting, in your picture. Maybe the way the warm light shines through the trees - casting long shadows, reminding me of "going home"... Strange the affect it has, but I like it :)
I'm drawn to the words 'thin sunlight' and will probably live with those words throughout the day...thank you!
"One needs another lens and tuning for winter, a different sort of vision, a song in a different key." Nice.
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