It's about that time of day.
The sun is sinking in the west and shows no signs of doing anything spectacular other than disappearing behind yonder hill. No gaudy colors blazing across the sky; no knock-your-socks-off photographs.
Shadows on the snow are turning blue with a hint of purple, the waning sidelight revealing the snow's granularity. The surface looks hard rather than soft; the undulations slightly menacing. It could be the landscape from another planet.
Still, I like this time when the last of the day begins to fade away, and a sort of gentle quiet seems to replace the bustle. Birds still work the feeders. Cardinals call and the white-throated sparrow sings his vespers. In the riffle, the blue heron stands, patiently waiting, yellow eyes ever watchful, as motionless as he is deadly with that sharp beak. Mallards gabble. The kingfisher takes one more plunge into the icy flow.
The river's surface catches the light…golden against the turquoise sheen of ice.
Day and night. Earth and sky. Water and land. Fire and ice.