Yesterday morning, a misty fog magically erased all separation between earth and sky. Instead, one became the other somewhere in the midst of a luminous white veil caused by cold snow cover and warming air. It was visually impossible, no matter how hard you strained to see, to say where one began and the other ended—everything was muddled, indistinct, an atmospheric mystery both oddly comforting and deliciously disquieting.
I thought it was also a nebulous world of soft, glowing beauty, where a pair of towering elms near a two-rail fence were like faded image on an old black & white print, or a young maple seemed suspended, almost floating.
Oaks in a grove up the road from the cottage looked more ephemeral and less sturdy, not at all their usual indomitable stalwart selves. Why, at any moment, they might simply fade away…even that vigorous youngster which had, so far, failed to give up a single one of last year's now-brown leaves.
Alas, while the photographer in me wanted desperately to spend the morning making pictures, there was no time. I had places to go, errands to run, appointments to keep. My time on this day was not my own. A quick look as I drove along was the best I could do…well, almost. I did have my camera on the passenger seat, and I did stop once or twice, roll down the window, and make a few snaps.