Sun-kiss Burns Off the Fog - East Missoula, Montana

As much as I dread driving in it, I love the beauty fog brings - it softens everyday realities, and  graces the trees with an other-worldly reminder .

Frosted Walk (and Then More Reading) - Missoula, Montana

“During those long afternoon walks in nature he came to believe that one must shut the mouth and open the eyes and ears, for nature only asked of him to look, listen, and attend.

After the walks: more reading.”

 -Young C.S. “Jack” Lewis, in Once Upon. A Wardrobe, by Patti Callahan, LT p. 166

Winter Sun and Frost - East Missoula, Montana

“…"You don't have to

prove anything," my mother said. "Just be ready

for what God sends." I listened and put my hand

out in the sun again. It was all easy…..”

 - William Stafford (1914-1993) from his last poem "Are You Mr. William Stafford?"

(Thanks to Maria Popova/the marginalian for her ponder of  this bright light.)

Winter Leaf Frost and Amazement - Missoula, Montana

“… When it’s over, I want to say: all my life 

I was a bride married to amazement. …” - Mary Oliver (1935-2019) from her poem When Death Comes

Frost At Eventide - Missoula, Montana

“The day is gently sinking to a close,

Fainter and yet more faint the sunlight glows…

Where Thou art present, darkness cannot be,

Midnight is glorious noon, O Lord, with Thee.”

-

The Day Is Gently Sinking To A Close (1863) by  Christopher Wordsworth (1807-1885)

(Thanks to Julia Spencer-Fleming for this poem opening her fourth Fergusson/Van Alstyne mystery To Darkness and To Death.)

Frost and Red Rose Hips - Missoula, Montana

Contrasts draw us in, as with red rose hips amidst  slender frost-outlined branches in the lingering evening light.

Cotton-Woodsy - Maclay Flats, Missoula, Montana

"There is pleasure in the pathless woods."
 -Lord Byron (1788-1824)

Riverbank Path At Maclay Flats, Bitterroot River - Missoula, Montana

“... By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.” —Kenneth Grahame (1859-1932), The Wind in the Willows)