It all just blows me away. I wonder how I manage to stay inside for a minute on a sunny day in September. The answer is: I don't. I drink it all in as if it were life itself. Because it is.
As it looks now.
And at dawn in August.
But the cold winter air is life itself, too, and I have learned to appreciate its narrow gifts. December can't give the luscious fruit that September does, but it has its stark beauty. I could paint this scene, oh yes I could. Much more easily and effectively than I could produce a September scene.
Half moon on one hand
Sun rising on the other
Ice so treacherous
It could snap bone, and with it