Friday, December 4, 2015

jack or jill frost

It feels and looks like winter. Cold. Dark. Gray. More of a time to hibernate like a Smoky Mountain black bear, hit the snooze alarm and curl up with a good book and a cup of chamomile, that sort of thing.

And yet, the early morning tableaux of Jack or Jill frost — whichever gender you like to assign it — fills me with a certain ardor that I cannot find indoors.


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