Leaves crunching underfoot or rattling like sabres in in the wind, frost limning cedar fence rails along the ridge, blowsy plumes of field grasses and reeds on the edge of the western field—they are all fine representations of the season and plangent leitmotifs in the windy musical work that is early winter.
The season marches onward, settling slowly, and with many deep sighs, into the subdued tints of early winter: soft bronzes, creams, beiges and silvery greys, small splashes here and there of winey red, burgundy, russet, a midnight blue almost iridescent in its sheen and intensity, but oh so fragile.
Highland frosts make themselves known as sugary drifts over old wood and on fallen leaves almost transparent in their lacy textures. An owl's artfully barred feather lies in thin sunlight under the fragrant cedars by a frozen spring and seems to be giving off a graceful pearly light of its own. The weedy residents of field and fen cavort in plumed and fuzzy hats.
One needs another lens and tuning for winter, a different sort of vision, a song in a different key. The senses are performing a seasonal shift of their own, moving carefully into the consideration of things small, still and muted, but complete within themselves and perfect, even when they are cold and wet.