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Winter. New England’s most bracing season. It is a time of year that evokes strong sentiments, whether joy or dismay. Regardless, there is beauty to behold during the blisteringly cold months—it’s hard to argue otherwise. There are the abandoned snow-laden fields; the impossibly blue sky and blinding sun; muscular trees, black against white; gray tones that give mood to a day; remnant berries, shriveled but hanging on; ice-crusted rivers refusing to stop their flow; air so fresh it hurts; the stark lines of barns, steeples, and old homes—all so plainly revealed during the “bleak” season. Perhaps it takes
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