Good morning! The first blush of dawn washes the sky as I drive off to work. I stop to take a quick shot of the house from the top of the hill. We're tucked into the head of a hollow, private, secluded and peaceful.
What you can't see here is the smoke rising from both chimneys on this chilly 8-degree day.
Turning away from the view of the house, I beheld this lovely, lovely moon, hanging like a ripe peach in the frosty air.
I did not turn right and follow the ridge this morning because the hill (Ken Parrish Hill, as we call it after the old gentleman who used to live at its foot) is probably very slippery. Instead, I turned right toward the church, a less treacherous route in bad weather.
The glow of pink edged the entire sky this morning, creating a pastel landscape that reminded me for some reason of the Snow Queen in the Nutcracker.
The graveyard at the church, about a half mile from my house, was blanketed in white silence, and I hoped the dead resting beneath were warmer than the living treading above.
In this graveyard is a grave marked "unknown." I have not yet found anyone who can tell me about the stone or how it came to be there. It's a mystery I need to solve, just to quiet my over-active imagination.