5 years
It’s dumping snow here in the Rockies. A blanket of white piling up on the hills, porch, roof –guiet and peaceful. I’m sorry that I’ve been out of touch for a while. Working on various projects here before a nasty flu got to me. I had a lovely talk with Ralph early this morning. He’s working on many projects and you’ll also find his work in this week’s New Yorker.
George Stranahan wrote a beautiful piece in his new book Phlogs. There are dozens of gorgeous stories to go with the photographs in the book, and I wanted to post a quote from one of his entries with a photo beside the tree farm across the street from Owl Farm.
Fall in the mountains comes as a surprise and never announces how long she will be staying around. She’s stunningly beautiful, and uncannily fickle, vanishing with the first serious cold front. The long winder of dark, cold and snow cannot be kept away and will stay through March. Winter has its own splendors, but life is lived as if underground.
As the fall sun moves lower in the sky there are many backlit moments like this. Halos appear where there were none before. These trees across the street from Hunter’s house; they’re what he’d see today, if only…
Knowing that Hunter is gone is like facing an endless winter, cold and dark, and part of me forever underground.
— George Stranahan.
As winter has its beautiful days, we will cherish those beautiful days in Hunter’s posthumous life
I’m off to shove some ice blocks off the roof and make a fire and spend the day with my animals and peace and quiet.
all the best to you,
Anita Thompson
