Snow artist has the Alps as his canvas

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“Simon Beck is inspired by any fresh blanket of snow, and produces his intricate masterpieces by jogging through deep powder on snowshoes.

His canvas is as vast as the Alps because it is the Alps, and his primary tools are a vivid imagination, a compass, and a pair of snowshoes.

Beck, who this week released a book titled “Simon Beck: Snow Art,” has been honing this unusual craft for about 10 years. Working mostly at night with a headlamp, he generally produces about 30 snow drawings a year.”

http://www.grindtv.com/outdoor/outposts/post/snow-artist-alps-canvas/

His work is so stunning.   Calls to mind other Environmental Art that naturally dissolves or disappears over time.  Love the ephemeral aspect of these artists’ creations; it’s so in alignment with the constant flux of nature.   The only constant is change.

Can’t wait for winter sports!

Autumn Lake ~ Day 44

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gracefully the trees shed their summer cloaks
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surrendering all outer life, to go deep within
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as the dark nights lengthen, the season of frost settles
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and the wind blows cold
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while we don our winter coats
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preserving our hot-blooded lives
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yet still the dark and the cold and the wind
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coax us to turn inward
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deep into the roots of our being

No Birds Sing on the Winter Solstice

No birds sing on the winter solstice.
Our shortest day is not brightened,
Nor is our longest night heralded,
by the high-pitched voice of a winged enchanter.

The nights stretch so long,
they draw near enough to whisper to each other.
hushed amid these whispers, we go about our business,
knowing they threaten us with cold death,
even as they entrance us with the mystery of darkness.

Perhaps the birds are also hushed by these whispers.
Perhaps none dares speak too loudly, too joyously,
Lest they be struck down by the hand of cold.
Or perhaps they, too, know reverence for the dark.

But as the sun rises higher and higher,
Day by day,
The birds are emboldened,
One by one.

The first to challenge the cold with its song?
The bravest of the birds?  The chickadee.
Each year, on some sunny January day,
A chickadee summons the courage to sing of the return of the light.

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A David of fluff challenging the Goliath of frost.
For weeks, none dare join him.
Then, come February, the Blue Jays, in their police attire
Call out their metallic Kweedle, Kweedle, from the treetops.

Soon, they are followed by the cardinals,
Singing as bold and brash as their crimson plumage,
As though they were the ones to break the spell of silence.

Each winter, whether the days be frigid or fair,
Whether the ground be snow-blanketed or mud-bare,
These are our harbingers… not of spring’s arrival…
But that the giant of winter will be overcome, once again.