My quiet woodland pond is full of ice, fallen leaves and twiggy reflections on a wintry November morning. It rests in the chill grip of the season and is somewhat like the doddering scribe methinks - cold and given to melancholy considerations.
When we are fortunate, there is a scrap of pale sunlight slanting through the bony trees nearby and floating languidly on the surface of the pond, but sunlight is a scarce commodity at this time of year, and such days are rare.
Somewhere within the pond (if one knows how to go about looking) are the green leaves of last July, golden summer warblings, bullfrogs, gentle breezes and ruby dragonflies, but this morning the surface mirrors late November sky, dead leaves and grasses and barren trees. Somewhere among the reflections is one very cold person holding a camera and hoping she doesn't drop it. She is also thinking about mugs of tea and fireplaces.