The snow went on so bright and deep, and dark in patches where shadows grew. Sometimes white sometimes gray then silver then blue, and all around us the hushing sound of runners sliding past the icy ground and the horse’s breath misting clouds in the air and a few flakes still falling and we don’t know where we’re going but the snow goes on as far as the eye can see. So bright and deep and dark.
Sometimes when I am most tired, like now, I find myself needing to riff on images. This beautiful painting by Winslow Homer, simply titled "Sleigh Ride," (and painted between 1890-95), called out for a swooshing rush of words last night. Poetry? Prose? A prose poem, perhaps, and one that slides along like the sleigh on the snow.
Checked the weather forecast this morning. It looks like the cold is finally settling in to stay awhile.