A Week Through An Artist’s Eyes

It is the season of snow bones, those stubborn ice ridges that the rising sun gnaws at like old scabs.

It is the season of the sky- neither gray nor clear but variegated with clouds.

It is the season of tea waters that run with mayflies and slippery sediment.

It is the season of the long golden hour when your cheeks are chapped by the river’s cold wind, but you stay and watch nonetheless.

It is the season of a new tomorrow when one close of day may be the last night of long winter’s sleep.