Forgive me: I don't leave early enough in the morning. I am eager to get home to dinner at night. I don't stop. I don't slow the car, pull over, slip my feet into boots and traipse across iced savannahs. I have not captured these places with what we onced called film.
But there are several images that I've seen this last month, and loved:
1) Fence poles, stark and gray against an afternoon sky, slices of shadow splicing the snow. They are straight and crooked and lonely. Yet brave. They remind me of thin children in a school yard lined up to jump rope.
2) Sand dunes that are snow dunes, Antarctic ridges that are Saharan ridges. Hills that rise up, their wide bodies tinged with blue, into a blue-white sky.
3) Thick snow on the roads. At 6:07 a.m--the morning black except for headlights and all this otherwordly visiting white--I think, We tell ourselves we have settled this land, cut through it cleanly from one city to the next--but we are all visitors. We are swimmers. It is easy enough to be moved.
And the one that haunts me most:
4) The three tall maple trees to the south of Highway 7, up high on the ridge line. They stand like sisters, bathed in early light, robed in gold. I look to them each morning for a sign. I'm not sure why. I glance at their branches, half-expecting to one day see an arm, a hand, a thousand fingers pointing me east or west.