Last week was a busy week, which began with a trip south to visit a friend. I met Barb only a scant 5 months ago at a photography retreat. Her reputation preceded her, I was already a  fan. As I drove along, so very excited to catch up with her, and see where she makes her magic, I was in awe of the signs of winter so very obvious through the windshield.

Hoar frost clung to the barbed wire fence posts and dusted the grasses below, whitewashing the landscape. Thoughts of the Snow Queen-a fairy tale come to mind. Perhaps this is what she would have thrived in.

A lone filly stands in a milky pasture. No doubt she bore witness to jack frost dancing about the meadows, inviting her to race. She provides the only colour to the canvas, a rich chestnut brown. Perhaps the snowfall caught her unaware, before she made her way back to the warmth of her barn.

A cluster of evergreens remind me of mountain peaks rising up to the cloudless sky- a muted gray white, the focal point in a magic world. Reluctantly I return to my vehicle and put away my camera before heading down the highway once again to see my friend.

We remark on the beauty of the frost the next day while driving to town to shop. She stops to take a photo or two, but I choose to let the scenes from the previous day stand, and I remain in the car. We fill our 2 days with walking on the lake ice, gathering willow and shooting succulents from the warmth of her home.

I leave after 2 days, heading south to visit family. The hoar frost is already gone, a fleeting memory. The south is warmer, less enchanting. Brown earth. Bland earth.

A week passes by and after goodbyes, we head home. As we drive northwards, a blustery snow storm awaits us welcoming us home.

No breath of wind,
No gleam of sun –
Still the white snow
Whirls softly down
Twig and bough
And blade and thorn
All in an icy
Quiet, forlorn.
Whispering, rustling,
Through the air
On still and stone,
Roof, – everywhere,
It heaps its powdery
Crystal flakes,
Of every tree
A mountain makes;
‘Til pale and faint
At shut of day
Stoops from the West
One wint’ry ray,
And, feathered in fire
Where ghosts the moon,
A robin shrills
His lonely tune.               -Walter de la Mare