Winslow Homer 1893
Winter sun slides beneath the treeline, crosses the final lavender mile home with strips of deep purple, pale magenta. Neither warms this sub-zero trek. Progress marked by the flash of slender ski tips through new-fallen snow, my rasping breath through a strip of wool scarf. Continue reading
Above the timberline, stunted trees of high altitude are little more than memory. As far as the eye can see, reindeer moss is sparked with tiny white flowers and golden clusters of cloudberry. Continue reading
September’s last rays paled as velvet breezes whispered of long nights to come. Cora nestled deeper into a warm hollow at cliff’s edge, ignoring the salt sway of the fjord below.