I took the dog for a walk at the refuge today, the snow crunching under our feet, the wind making it feel colder than the 23F temperature. The rusts, greys, and browns of the dormant trees and shrubs stood out against the snow, casting long shadows in the late afternoon. The clouds were soft greys and pale yellows. I saw painting opportunities everywhere. And while I don't stand up well to the cold, I love this time of year, and am eager to paint the winter.
Once again, however, I am a season behind, finishing a moonrise, a field of golden rods and distant trees, a bluff prairie ablaze in the morning sun. The fall was glorious in every way, except for the fact it had to end. It seems the season flies by like no other. Like every other year, I will be working on fall paintings until January and still not get all my ideas to canvas.
In October, I stood along the shoreline of the Mississippi River three nights in a row, watching and waiting for the Harvest Moon, stomping my feet to keep warm. I knew I had to wait for the moon to clear the trees, but it startled me, first appearing as a bright campfire through the trees of the island, and then a rising golden globe in the darkness of early evening. The island trees, faded but still leaf-full, let the moon have center stage. Its reflection wavered and spun through the currents, slow in places, fast in others. I had to go back during the daylight to sketch the river bank, to stare at the currents, and then home to the warmth of the studio, celebrating the Harvest Moon once more.