Oil on canvas, 24x24
The sun shines thin and white these January days, and drains the color from the land and sky. There's a brittleness to the fields, the remnants of the crops crisp and dry underfoot. The wind blows raw and sharp, and the rich blue of the summer sky is just a promise, a memory, a hope.
My fingers grow cold as I paint, standing in the winter landscape. My cheeks redden, and the chill seeps up from the ground and through my boots. Aside from passing cars and the sky-high calls of geese, the January quiet is unbroken. Summer will bring bustle and noise and sunshine, tractors and farmers, people and boats, long warm busy days, but for now, this is a solitary spot.
If you look hard enough, you can see the landscape warming. At the edges, by a blade, by a leaf, the Eastern Shore is greening. Each day brings spring closer, by seconds at first, and now by noticeable minutes. But for now, the cold is deep and still, and holding fast.