In Maine, we are now in deep winter, a cold, snowy, brilliant time of year. Some people, especially those who are affected by the lack of light, get the blues in February or go stir crazy or a combination of the two. I am happy to report that winter doesn’t get me down. No, for me, that comes with March, just around the corner, and a category of its own in Maine.

While I love the hustle and bustle of the holidays, I am grateful for the calm of winter, a time to write, read, and perhaps do a bit of organizing, although I never get too far with this. I find February restful—unless, of course, there is a big storm—and hunkering down at night is soothing rather than dreary.

Here was the temperature this morning, before I went out to take pictures. Cold but not brutal, the way it has been in the Midwest.

Our driveway is no longer glare ice, and although care is still needed, walking to the car or the mailbox is much less treacherous than it has been.

I always like to see our cozy, little home tucked in the snow.

Out back, the patio is completely covered with snow. No patio nights for a while, no glimpses of flowers as there are with some of my blogging friends.

Then there is the forest, mysterious any time of year.

Hard to resist a season where there are so many blue shadows in the yard and in the woods.

The merry hubbub of December is over, and, as always, I am sorry to see it end. Somehow, all the holiday preparations and bustle brighten this darkest month of the year.

Yet January in Maine has its consolations. Yes, it is one of the coldest months, but it is also one of the most beautiful, alternating between snowy days and then days so still, bright and blue  you can hardly stand the glory.

Wednesday was a bright and blue kind of day, and as I was out doing errands—mailing a book, stopping at the library, going to the grocery store—I brought my wee camera along. I knew I would find plenty to photograph.

I am a sucker for dried or wizened fruit on a bare tree, and I took this picture at the town’s Credit Union.

At the Post Office, I saw cattails, spikes of exploded fluff, by the railroad tracks.

Across the road from the post office, on Maranacook Lake, little shacks have been set up for ice fishing, and they have been clustered into a charming, impromptu village.

Then it was on to the public beach, just around the corner.  So lovely, empty, and melancholy.

But on the ice, there were more shacks to brighten the mood.

And onward we head, toward the full moon of January, the Wolf Moon.

No two ways about it. The recent elections threw me in a tizzy, and I am oh so glad that overall there was more good than bad. I am also coming down the homestretch with Library Lost. Between those two things, I don’t have much energy for anything else.

But yesterday afternoon in the front yard,  the light was so beautiful that I did make time to take a few pictures.

Looking up, there are oak leaves.

Looking down, ditto.

Little Minerva is nearly buried.

And one lone phlox flower hangs on.

Finally, this captures how I feel after Tuesday’s elections. So light, so grateful.

While the work certainly isn’t done—we can never say, “There! Finished!”—after the past two miserable years, there is now hope.

Farewell, October and welcome, November. The glorious bursts of colors are mostly gone, replaced by the more somber tones of the oaks and the beeches. November is an austere month with so many subtractions that many people find the landscape bleak this time of year.

They have a point, as this picture of the public beach illustrates. No laughing children, no watchful adults. Summer’s pleasures are definitely over, and we no longer have the dazzle of October to console us.

Still, the more subdued colors do brighten the forests around our home, and I find beauty in the more muted tones.

As always, looking down provides its own rewards.

Nevertheless, I can’t help but think that Sherlock has the right idea. Do you suppose he is trying to decide which books he should read during the long, dark cold of winter?