Under Cover of Fog

The Street lights gleam in soft repose, while silence shouts in glitter on the snow,

Or draped in strands of tiny lights, enclose these island Worlds.

Where snow drifts and fog conceal,the city seems no longer real--

A place of simple shapes in colors not of day,these en capsuled dreams which hide away,

But sometimes seen when wandered through, sometimes known by just a few.

Warm-Up in the Winter

Warm-ups allow the streams to open, snow to melt, and prepare the Winter canvas for a new scene. Then a chill comes again, building up new ice images. With a few faint traces of snow dusting the rocks, the greens of mosses add a touch of color to the shadows. Wet, icy, frozen, layered--the Ice Terraces are being rebuilt by the invisible hand of air and temperature.

In a carapace of ice nearby, the music of water reverberates within; sounding through crevices, reemerging and splashing over polished rocks, downwards carrying it's tune.

The ravine is a staircase of wonders, steeply laid against the mountain; the world of ice revealing once again it's jeweled structures-- from crystal growths to frozen waves, slowly forming walls and berms.

Winter in such a place is still alive with a language pure as music, and universal in shape and form.

A Winter's Afternoon

The southern slopes of Turnagan arm were bare on the lower areas, gradually turning into snow higher up. And the day was warm, the view expansive, all the way up and down the length of the bay. After a climb of around 700 ft, I had reached a flat ledge. Here was a view of mountains and lowlands, ice drifting in the tide, and projections of rock and islets along the sides. The cloud stream above was made of waves with chinks of blue in-between, casting a yellowish glow on the waters of the bay.

All along the sides of the ranges, to include the valleys that wandered back into the interiors, the ancient curve joined the hills, forming concavities on the upper slopes where grass and rosebush framed the scene. A line of smoke, originating from the valley across bay, drifted up the arm and filled the lower regions in soft blues. I was now in a place of steepness, climbing around the cliffs, and following a sheep track on the bare but frozen ground. In places where the ice mixed with the rock, I kicked holds into the hardened snow, proceeding from one dry area to the next one.

Such was the experience, high above the road. The shortness of afternoon in Winter time brings intensity of mood and moment. But going back down was the hardest part, where each step on the edge only sharpened the senses with being alive. The air was filled with a glow now. The land had a ascetic look, of muted color and hibernation. Yet this world vibrated in a way of constant motion, with freeze and thaw, producing effects a little different from the previous day. I lived, I felt, and merged in the flow of a Winter's Afternoon.

The Lonely Sun

The people looked so tiny, like specks on the road far below--watching sheep wandering along a steep and icy precipice against the towering cliffs. I suppose the fear that brings wonder is like a jolt of life, when the senses work at a fever pitch. Yet the sheep seemed calm and preoccupied by the search for winter food.

The real dangers for me were the black ice strips along the upper trail, where foot steps had pounded the snow into a slippery trap. Warming and freezing conspired in making the snow granular and hard. By this I knew, that the way up and around the rock barriers would be on these cakes of hardened snow. The gritty white surface held, while my steps crunched out noise. Around a rock corner a sheep peered down at me. But the animals presence went unheeded, and I continued up through the rocky outcrops that encircled the woods below.

But I was drawn to something else. Off the main trail, my movements had created a new uncharted one. Sometimes trails are more than permanent lines on maps; they may come and go during the winter season--on freeze ups on the rivers, on the hard packed snow in the woods. Sometimes they may be a soft line of cloud, carrying the curious mind's eye into a sunset sea. So, I remain a searcher of fugitive moments, of conditions hidden in the shadows of the cliffs or made visible in the waning light -- where an inner way has it's own rhythms, connecting to a thousand other faces in nature; from wind and storm to the tidal actions along the bay and beyond.

Yet it was the disk of the sun, floating listlessly in a sea of fog, that mirrored my thoughts, bringing me closer to the edge of silence. That bright burning sun, now reduced to a small circle, sputtered in the swirling mist of a winter's afternoon. And like a weakened moon, it cast only an arctic shadow over the bay below. Yet, somehow, through a hidden gate of cloud, its presence was felt in copper glare upon the tide. My mood swirled and danced like the sun in the cloud, while the gallery of ice and frost and rock remained unmoved by my passing here.