Is this place an ocean or a desert in winter? I am never sure which, but either way, there is always something to feast one's eyes on and capture with the lens. Old window panes, heaps of books, bowls of fruit and cups of tea, it's all good. Isn't a little uncertainty a good thing, every now and then?
There are patterns here everywhere one looks at this time of the year, and they all have to do with liquid turnings and transformation: feathery patterns in river ice, glossy icicles suspended from trees along the shore, field grasses poking their silvery heads out of snowdrifts, beads of water falling in the garden and freezing in midair, fallen leaves with snow crystals shining through tiny apertures in them. Everything my cronish eye alights on is food for thought and camera, a good thing since I am not able to wander far at the moment.
In the absence of the vibrant colors dancing on my palette at other times of the year, winter places are a commonwealth of swirling shapes and patterns, each and every one exquisite. Even an egg yolk sun shining through the kitchen window in a friend's heritage farmhouse delights and enchants.