Winter in the Northeast is not known for being exceptionally colorful. Dreary, dull days of grays and browns are the general rule of the season, and if you want stimulation you must refine your view to appreciate the more subtle undulations in the texture of what’s around you. It takes a certain re-training of the eye, but fall, and the way it slowly smolders, gradually diminishing the saturated tones of summer, has always eased me into it. Now that winter’s here, the adjustment to elicit a more hidden beauty has been made.
One of the reasons I don’t rush to cut things down immediately at the end of the growing season (apart from the protection such brush affords) is because I know how uninteresting the landscape becomes without some structural interest. Even the deadest branch can be brought back to life with a fresh coating of snow. The grasses, and their fluffy seed heads, know this too. In addition, the sun can be just as transformative as the snow.
Truth be told, anything can be made stunning in the golden hour. Tans and browns and beiges, so unremarkable in the overcast gray haze of most winter days, suddenly spring to life when the late-afternoon sun slants down upon them. Against a blue sky, they erupt like fire, bringing to mind warmth and the memory of summer.
