Seasons.

Lots of wind in the night broke up the ice. Allowed it to shift into these shapes. Kind of stunning.

The thing about living in such a gorgeous spot is that you realize always that all you have to do is look outside and be moved. Look at the lines. Look at the shapes. Look at the texture.

When I would go riding with my father as a child, we occasionally would have a friend or guest join us. Predictably, my father would say afterwards: “They talked too much.” He wanted quiet, to take in all there was to see in the woods.

As a child, I was ready to talk. I saw trees and more trees. Dark mornings getting lighter. And yes, okay, there was the intense glow of sunrise.

Now, years later, those memories come back to me in a whole different way. What I was observing and taking for granted comes up as wonderment. The ways that the woods shifted from season to season, day to day, hour by hour.

As a child, what I wanted was for time to speed up. Of course I was riding through those non-moving trees. Tree tree tree. Who cares?

Now? Wow, I’m mesmerized by almost still ice. Mesmerized.

Seasons.