Pillow Land

Waking in the night, light coming in the transom glowed pink - a good indication that snow was falling. Waiting for sleep, I listened to wind rattle the metal wreath at the front door and shush as it passed through tree branches. In the  morning, wind still sifted and twirled through the foot of new snow. The forest was transformed: snow blasted tree trunks and evergreen boughs were flocked white. Hushed as the surroundings, our touring skis made a soft pillowy sound as they fluffed and glided through winter's dreamscape.

A spot of bright color leads the way.

Observing and writing during January for

A River of Stones