Snow laden trees stand like silent robed monks of winter praying at the edge of the creek
Winter's artistry whispered across the forest
The creek could not stand still or it would freeze
Old man winter reached out with Icey fingers on the creek’s reflections
Jack Frost's chilly breath left a delicate, frosted lace on every surface
Witnessing and documenting that interplay of ice and reflection made me feel incredibly lucky and grateful to share with all who view and enjoy this blog.
Glad tidings of comfort and joy from jimsgibberish
