Recovered from the Wayback Machine.
Another posting from last year, wrote while looking out on palm trees and bare streets, walkers in shorts. This year, I repost these words while looking out at white flakes falling past my window, covering the ground. What is it about falling snow that makes one reflective, somehow wistful and nostalgic?
Snow falling gently over rolling hills dotted with trees both green and bare. The cerulean blue sky is captured, muted, and then reflected back in distorted waves from ice formed across a vast lake. Watched through the window, a red fox leaps from snow back to snow bank in the field in front of the house, its color matching the red of the barn next door.
Strand after strand of large Christmas lights are wound round and round the pine tree that stands alone in the field. At night, a switch is thrown and for miles you can see the tree, lights blazing, casting a multi-colored shadow on the snow.
In the morning a rare cardinal in the bush next to the driveway makes a nice counter point to the blue of the jays and the brown of the occasional hawk and commonly occurring finch.
Crystal white, azure blue, pine green, fox red, hawk brown. And then it gets colorful.
Winter in Vermont.
