It is, just what it is. In the beginning, we are light of heart to see it, but by the end of January, we are thoroughly weary of it and ready to see it pass away.
Winter stays around here for several months out of the calendar year, with north winds, deep snow and bitter cold making us dance in place to stay warm when we are out of doors. The long white season mutes skies by day, conceals the moon and stars by night. It wraps around village, field and forest, rounding with alike tenderness and reciprocity, the contours of houses, streets, vehicles, hillsides and sleeping trees.
Rather than trying to tune out all the white stuff, I am photographing it patiently, playing with the light and looking for the distilled and softly glowing essence of winter - now and then, I encounter that essence in unlikely places.
In a sunny place under the trees, a cold clear spring is rising from several hundred feet underground, the small pool liquid for only a moment or two before freezing in place. The bubbles, the fingers of glossy icicles and the bits of frayed wood suspended over them take on the elements of a painting, and what I see in the viewfinder leaves me wide of eye and breathless. As mundane as such natural compositions are at first glance, they hold all the world in their delicate shadings and curves, graceful acknowledgments of the suchness of all things.