One of those fine, sunny and very blue winter mornings which seldom makes an appearance in December, and is always accompanied by paralyzing cold. . . .
It has been cold enough in the last few days that at times we are unable to break through the ice crust when we are walking along deer trails in Lanark - crunchy going all the way. The forest is a noisy place to be in such weather, a wide realm of breaking glass in which sturdy boots and protective head gear are imperative.
A bitter wind goes dancing among the ice-coated trees, and it performs a symphony as it goes along. The instruments are organic, and the principal notes tinkles and chimes, rattles and creaks, groans and falling ice. Mama Gaia (the Old Wild Mother) is the original scribe, the primal composer of all musics, cosmic, refulgent and terrestrial.
This morning, a small cameo appearance from the doddering scribe/photographer of this patchwork realm. Near the end of a calendar year, there is something reckless, daring and rather appealing about the idea of showing up here, but as just a patch of strong blue shadow in my favorite landscape, an antiquated abstraction in which no visual details of the gnarly old metabolism are revealed. Call it a birthday image of sorts.