The familiar and durable snows of January have now left us- Something that seemed to be coming for weeks, but only at once appears to occur. It recedes in a sluggish fashion, until it's very end; As if completely lacking the energy to any longer maintain.

Here we are, now in April. Long absent geese lit down upon the water of the impromptu lakes which the winter has strewn across our fields. The wind blows, slow and steady, in wake of the cold season, and inscribes our transitory waterfront with coarse and shallow waves; Like a bored sailor who hones his craft of scrimshaw- Elaborate, but amateur.. beautiful, yet somehow still graceless.

Bush and straw grow here among field edges, surrounded by that impermeable and dark, regal water. Life here this time of year is any color of fading brown or black- much like those very same geese. Everything is in high contrast from dull sun bleached highlights and this past season's long and gradual leeching of all saturation.

Everything is quiet and everything is slow as the world around us now waits for spring to muster the energy and conceive the ambition to exorcise the grim specter of winter.