Between Cold Moon and Wolf Moon, we orbit the farthest from the sun. Bitter cold grasps at twig and bone, snow is driven across fells like silk curtains torn, icy rain pommels frozen ground.

And yet, in this harsh weather, we find a harmony of force, of strength that is the root to beauty. Bare wood frames nothing but imagination. A fey pheasant shouts across snow-covered field, his voice loud and clear.

Deer walk on frozen moor, careful of treacherous holes, glad to be granted passage by ice.

And when the light wanes and the owls fly out hunting, they are ghost-like more than ever, blending with gauzy skies as they hunt from dry-stone wall. One second there, then gone, taken by the wind in their fight for food.

With settled airs, the owls still fly, ivory wings and snow-capped moors contrasting against eyes and claws and only at the last moment does light reach under clouds to stroke the fields in deceptive comfort.