This semester, we have had three blizzards close school on Monday. It had mostly stopped snowing by midday, but the wind was still blowing strong. Just east of Moorhead, it looked pretty nasty…
That “closed road” doesn’t exist by the way. The snow didn’t close it.
This is becoming pretty common: the snow piles at the end of driveways are, once more, pretty high. I don’t know where we put the next batch. Maybe we won’t get anymore.
I find I take a lot of photos when the sky is grey, especially in winter. Otherwise, I try to take them during sunrise or sunset to get the softer light those afford. But it was a bright sunny day, so I decided to wander down by the Red River.
Because of flooding issues in the last four or five years, the city has bought out and removed homes along the river. These tree stumps used to be in somebody’s back yard not too long ago.
And I finally decided to take a picture or two of myself. Playing with the lens hood I got for Christmas, I took a picture of my feet yesterday. I actually kind of like the picture, but I won’t inflict that on you. Instead I’ll share with you my one and only self-portrait. (I’m wearing a trench coat, not a skirt.)
The snow sparkles a lot underneath the street lamp.
The sun tried desperately to burn off the cloud cover and shine through. But only the camera has any hope of catching a glimpse.
With apologies to They Might Be Giants…
So this is one of those pictures where I think it might be more interesting if you don’t know what the subject is. Or maybe I’m just wrong.
The blank page is both a blessing and a curse. A writer picks up the pen with the purpose to fill the sheet. Heroes and villains, love and tragedy all wait to be brought into existence, born from the ink pressed to paper. There are stories to be told. They may be frivolous or weighty, light-hearted or somber, but they must get out.
Sometimes, however, the words don’t come. The blue lines with nothing but white space between merely mock, refusing any words that try to rest upon them. The stories will not come; the ink does not flow.
When the writer sits down, there is no telling which sort of page this one will be. It may reward or frustrate. Yet, no matter how good or how bad the experience is, a writer always comes back to the blank page.
Getting towards the end of NaBloPoMo – National Blog Posting Month – and I’m trying to finish the whole month with a post a day. Today got away from me, and I find myself at a loss. So I’m going to post a photo that I took over a year ago, but that hasn’t been on this blog. That counts, right? I feel like I’m cheating, but it’s still a new post.
Anyway, I was in St. Louis last fall, for the first time ever. Naturally, I had to visit the Gateway Arch. I refused to go up in it (fear of heights and such). But I didn’t mind laying on my back looking up at it.
It was a grey day, but I think it works.
Thanksgiving night, we started getting snow. And wind. In the morning, it seemed only an inch or so had fallen, but it was clearly sticking around. We might finally be into winter…
I woke up to find frost on everything. Just enough to be noticeable, not enough to really think of it as hoar frost. But then, last February’s bout of hoar frost spoiled us, I think.
I only wish I had my macro lens with me.
So I’ve posted a dog photo, but I haven’t posted one of the cats in some time. And Shamatha was looking pretty cute, so…