We have the moraine almost to ourselves. Only a few dog walkers show on the well packed trails. Our solitude comes cheap—rain dampened pants and boots wet from tromping through soft snow.

Last weeks’ rich winter whiteness remains but without the enhancement of sun or the sparkles of frost. The snow, almost too white when contrasted with the black silhouettes of bare trees, throws up its own light. Since low clouds and fog cut off views of the glacier and its mountains, we only have the white, and gray, and black of the lower ground.
While last week’s sunny excess excited, this landscape deconstructed by rain brings calm, like that which always surrounded my father. He would have been 95 today, If I had the skill and an umbrella, I’d capture the calm, monotone moraine with ink washes but my painting couldn’t include this stream near the beaver village, stained a rust red by the surrounding muskeg.