Winter Rye, oil on canvas, 24×18
TWENTY DEGREES AND THE WIND is blowing hard enough across the fallow fields to stir up clouds of fine silt, which race wraith-like into my path and through me. The thin sheet of ice on the river moans and snaps like a warped saw blade as it stretches and shifts, seeking equilibrium.
Still, the sun is warm where it reaches the hollow. The birds don’t mind the cold. Neither does Molly. I’ll be better prepared tomorrow.
Winter Rye is a fabulous oil.
Thanx!
Loved those winter pieces–just like the Impressionists’ Effets de Neiges.
Have a wonderful holiday
Geri B
The fading days of autumn . . . how about a ‘season’s saving time’? And you can’t even find respite in the south anymore.
bf