Words

An oriole's nest neatly hangs high, here surrounded by leaves the wind tore off two months back.

 






A morning of hoarfrost turns all things into unearthly beauty.















I stare at children's snowprints through a window screen.






I'm not in the mood for words.  Another night, perhaps, I'll have something worth setting down, but for now, snapshots and silliness-- a bulbous, red sphere stretched over a clown's sharp nose.