Hard Frost

As a writing student in college I was taught by my mentor, Tim Muskat, to seek out the beauty in the mundane and to be as specific as possible. That can be a difficult task, especially at this in-between time of year, caught as we are between the explosion of Autumn's color and the simple but marvelous whitewash of winter. My long walks with Duncan now occur mainly at night when it's impossible to see much of anything except the orange glow of the city sky and the occasional burst of starlight when the haze clears. Our morning walks, though, cold and quick, are the only time I have to notice,  to exercise my senses by following Dunc's lead, keeping my eyes low to the ground where the hard frost has brought new life to the colors and textures of our world, my ears turned up to catch the final calls of the owls in the cottonwoods, my feet tuned to the crunch of the hard, brittle grass below.  Tim beat the concept of the concrete and specific into our brains and onto our pages, but Duncan leads me to them with an ease that is unmatched. I thought I'd share some of his finds from the past few mornings, from curling leaves spiderwebbed into the grass to an explosion of gold behind the shattered glass of frost-covered trees, from the frozen teardrop of dew on a wilting purple pansy to the silver fraying edges of yesterday's blood-ripe leaves. Tim taught me to watch while Duncan guides my eyes daily.

 

Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.  (Stanley Horowitz)