The north wind brushes snow away from ice on the river, and clouds of displaced snowflakes swirl through the air like confetti. Light flickers through nearby trees and everything sparkles: river, snowdrifts, whiskery branches and frozen grasses. The scene is uplifting for a crotchety human in January. She longs for light, and the sunshine is a shawl across her shoulders as it comes and goes through the clouds and the mist over the river—it's like honey in her cup.
Reeds fringe the tributary here and there, their stalwart toes planted in the frozen mud, and their withered stalks swaying in the wind. The spikes outlined against the sky are pleasing when one can actually see them, their artfully curling tops eloquent of something wild and elemental and engaging. So too are the frosted fields, fences and trees on the far shore, the cobalt hues of snow and sky, the diaphanous veil of cold vapor floating above everything.
There are no caroling birds by the river, and there is silence for the most part, but this week, she remembered the river singing in its exuberant springtime flowing, last summer's great herons motionless in the reeds at sundown. She thought of Vladimir Nabokov's memoir, "Speak Memory". On another day, that might have been a good title for this post written in the depths of winter.
The world around her is a manuscript written in wind and light. How on earth is she going to fit sky, tempest and dancing snow into one 5x7 image?
2 comments:
The dancing has to be shown with sound and words. Be like that stalwart grass that stands tall and firm until the change to spring. Our sun came up earlier today...we noticed!
Your image is superb. If you hadn't written the words, however, I wouldn't have known the feelings and thoughts behind it. That part is totally you, totally the universe.
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