I love the change of seasons. My favorite times of the year are Fall and Winter. There’s something about those seasons that get me all giddy and writerly.
I live in Kentucky, just far enough north to get snow in the winter, but far enough south for people to freak out about it. To say the least, winter around here is just dull and gray with a day or two of snow (it’s the Snowpocalypse if there’s more than an inch). We do have a fall, and the leaves do change colors, but they’re not as bright and spectacular as the gold and scarlet foliage that I used to see in Michigan.
I found this picture a couple of weeks ago while Googling around for autumn foliage, and it immediately struck me:
First the colors got my attention, and then the arch. I wondered what was a freestanding stone arch doing in the middle of the woods? (It may not actually be the middle of the woods. I don’t have any point of reference for this, it might just be someone’s back yard)
I read somewhere recently that in the Northeast, particularly in New England, there are areas that used to be farmland, but after Industrialization the farms were abandoned, and the forests moved in to reclaim the land. You can walk through the woods and come across sections of old stone walls that used to mark the boundaries between fields. Is this what remains of an old house, or a barn? Or, (being me) is there something more magical at work here?
What do you think?
Every time I go looking for pictures of snow this picture comes up:
It always seems to me that the bench is waiting for someone to come and sit on it. Who will be the next person to rest there? Why would they choose to stop, brush the snow drifts away and sit, as the icy flakes drift down around them?