Driving to work , numbing frigid morning, sun obscured by a continuous monotonous whitish grey sky. The kind of light that drains color, turns the whole world into a monochromatic grey-scale. Bare trees are tall black silhouettes against dark white snow, their leafless branches a random tangled blur of dark grey against the brighter somewhat illuminated sky and snow covered ground. The merest hint of shadows are indistinct fuzzy greyer outlines giving the snow a surreal quality. The field across the road is cold weak milky white, all its contours smoothed away becoming one with the sky and hills beyond. The diffused light confuses my brain with a powerful urge to go back to sleep because obviously I’m still in dreamland. Crossing a bridge over a flowing rippling dark blue grey creek, I slow down on the icy road and am mesmerized by the sinuous tendrils if mist delicately spiraling up from the slightly warmer water. Silently, persistently wrapping around every single little and large branch and twig, stem and trunk, of every brown grey blade of dead grass and weeds, bushes, and trees next to the gurgling dark water. There the secretive mist freezes solid into a thick frosty icing coating. These white frost crystals seem to glow dully in the morning half light, as if lit from within and the light scatters through the opaque layer of white ice frosting. Maybe its the life force of all those sleeping plants singing a song of spring, gently humming, biding its time, waiting for the perfect moment to burst out in its full operatic symphony chorus, but for now it is impatient, and trapped in the crystallized ice of winter’s grey and white freezing weakening grip.