In winter, the bare trees cast shadows on the ground at night–with the moon as the solitary spotlight. Blues, grays, shades of white–the world is an Ansel Adams pictorial.
Trees, even the broken and gnarled, show their shapes shamelessly naked. Vine and berry garland branches.Color flits through early morning branches, and the birds that were only voices in summer show themselves in brilliant hues.
Crisp, breathless days.