Winter days in the mountains are meek, the sun slipping into a season long reticence, and those abounding this terra firma must simply persevere… there’s a silence that hangs like a pall over the landscape, and there’s a crispiness to the mists… both the flora and fauna go into a state of contemplation that comes with the necessity to survive… it’s a knot, the winter, where demises go quietly into the night and the seeds of genesis prep up for spring on the anvil…

The days try to compensate for the loss of duration with poignancy at the edges… dawn lifts the dampness of the dusk and drapes it over the canopy before the night pulls it down again, the season seemingly having its own interpretations of gravity… ‘tis the twilight though that highlights winter, a defiant move by the day to make the most out of its shorter stint…

The amber on the horizon becomes a canvas of hope, the fading light breaking into one last riot of colour before the greys silently reinforce their melancholy… a spark that makes one believe in the transience of the frigid night… sometimes one is wet and shivering, sometimes brazen against the biting wind, placing faith in the comfort of closed spaces, letting the elements have their moment in (or out of?) the sun awhile… for what is frozen will eventually fracture or melt…

Then there’s the winterline, moments when the light musters up the last trick up its sleeve, refusing to let dusk have its way… mustering support from deep seated valleys, the mountains concoct a recipe from refraction… moisture, temperature, weather, haze… it resembles an elaborate orchestra where everything element of the ensemble must come together at the precise moment to create that timeless symphony… for winter is the time to wallow in the brooding silence and churn comfort out of cold…

Musings on winter sunsets in the mountains…