"Autumn is familiarly the season of color, winter is the season of form, spring the season of texture, and summer the season of motion."
Henry Beston from Herbs And The Earth
As I read that line after a long day of idleness, for it is winter in Maine- I thought how apt a perception. The days are long on melancholy and short on bursts of adrenalin. The sun only comes out from hiding when a pine captures it in it's branches and makes a show of it. And then, it seems- the other trees in the forest lean in and warm themselves in the fuzzy orbing glow. On my walks through the wet, drudgingly difficult snow- I come upon forms and frame them as I can with interest- though most are completely abandoned in the end by a quick delete push of the button. It is difficult to find inspiration of color, of movement though ever increasingly- texture is creeping in. For every little bit of Spring is churning under foot, I can feel it- sometimes I hear it when I find myself upon a trail that is no trail at all, but a snow bank over a stream. The gurgle of water trying to make it's way down a hillside after it's been trapped all season long in winter's imprisonment of ice- is to my ears a sweet and longing sound. I stop and all is still, with the exception of that gurgle that brings all disappointments and worries to a halt. One has to get out of one's way at times...I know no better escape than those wintry-teetering-on-breaking-into-spring walks.