Writing, Art and the Search for Beauty

For most of the Pocono calendar year, beauty is just shouting at you non-stop. Fall is a wall of color, the winter snows dazzle. Spring and summer....well, we all know what show-offs they can be. Right now, however, autumn has ended and the only thing jumping out of the landscape to catch your eye is the random sculpture made by some bear eating last week's trash.

This time of year you've got to look carefully for signs of natural artistry. Yesterday I was carrying my camera around because I want to take a photo of the single white duck that's taken up residence on a neighbor's pond. Although I walked over there a few times, she never glided near enough for a good close-up. The leafless trees looked forlorn and the grass was already brown in spots. Then just before 5 PM, I happened to go out again when the setting sun had transformed the sky into the work of art pictured above. Yes, it's here. Beauty has not abandoned us.

Writing in the Pocono Snow

Snow. It’s coming. White, fluffy, thick, heavy. It’s down batting over concrete. Where’s the sidewalk, the road? It’s comprehensive. Birds hide, Trees shake. Cars and fences disappear. It’s blameless, pure -- absolution for the city, adornment for the woods. It’s a school day on the couch, hot chocolate and cartoons. It’s a back ache, a collision, wet shoes. At night, it's a blanket that quiets the streets and sweeps our dirt beneath a pristine rug. By Sunday, it will be an urban memory, drowned in slush. But in the Poconos, it’s a tale that never ends. A childhood friend, an engine’s enemy. Whatever it is, it wakes me up and moves my pen.