Haven't done many miles and not much to report, but did get to thinking that people not from the rustbelt tend to think of winters here as silent, white and empty. Sometimes, they're not. Here's images from a run last week:
Silence of winter upended. Ice popping underfoot, styrofoam-squeak of fresh snow. Lake groans birthpangs of ice formation, cracking thunder, tinkling jetsam chandeliers cast ashore.
Juncos flit in underbrush, bowing goldenrod with half-ounce heft. Nuthatches chatter, asses skyward. Murder of crows pick flyspeck maybe-foods. Last vee of geese take aim.
Not all is cataracted by snowfall. Yellow and red osier, red oak, and willows weeping yellow and torch orange. Fresh yolk sun; low-angle rays refracting sulfurous and mercuric. A spot of blood, widening.
Something passes in the moment - dazzling, anonymous and lost. I love the ones whose names I do not know.
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