There is an interesting combination of colors on the mountains today, the dirty white of old snow and the buff of the long-departed growing season. The grass is long and dry, as it would be during a dry spell in late summer. Little patches of hillside seem to pine for that lost time, defying the winter. About halfway up, strangely the day became more dark and an amber glow appeared in the northern sky like a mistimed evening. This illusion broke down in only thirty minutes, but has me wondering what caused it. There are several short, scraggly pine trees that I really should paint, with the mountains as backdrop. The mud is really today's theme, a each steps attempts to rob me of a shoe. There are ice islands, in packs of a hundred or more, slowly gliding down the Hudson.
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