Walking across Portage lake in January as the sun goes down. There are fishing shacks behind me, and the darkening sky and snow dunes turn to an inky deep blue. My snowshoes crunch across the surface and skidoos scream in the distance.
My brush works through acrylic trying to capture the movement in the skies as a bitter arctic blast drives the night in.
Melting snow over Aroostook state park. a setting sun reflecting on water and ice. Light throws itself about the Northern Maine landscape
That tree, the tall one that stands above the telephone poles, its branches thick with wet and abundant leaves. it sways in the storm. The Iron maiden they call her. She dances in it. She juts out over the landscape in her finery. I would climb into her branches and ride the storm with her.
spring in the cedar bogs, is a walk for muck boots. There is still patches of snow, and water seems to trickle from every tree, plant, and mushroom.
