The tulips at my windowsill are done now and the amaryllis have come into glory, turning their backs to me because the sun is so much more compelling. Birds that were here all winter but mostly hiding in the shrubbery, are now flaunting themselves in song – certainly song from the cardinals and robins. I’m not sure I’d call it that from the bluejays. Still, it serves their purpose, claiming a territory, finding a mate, the tasks of approaching spring. 

The snow has turned to rain, sometimes as it falls. The ice is gone from our small neighborhood creek, where bare branches and flattened grass give us a longer view than usual of the path it provides for deer on their way to the river. That’s one of my favorite things about winter – how it changes the way we see things.

There’s a song about changing viewpoints, starting with clouds, that I always think of when I’m on an airplane. I like to sit in the window seat and watch the familiar, detailed ground turn into vast maps, and clouds become veils and carpets. I take photos and make sketches but nothing’s gelled into a painting yet. 

The sky is a rich source of painterly inspiration from below as well as above. Walking up my street yesterday I saw this. How would I paint clouds so they came out like that? Painted ultra-realistically, wouldn’t they look fake? These particular trees are evergreens so the view is seasonless, but if I painted in bare branches, or hung them with snow, or flowers, or red leaves, the same sky would tell a different story every time.

This is one of my favorite early-spring photos, taken a few years ago. I love how the tree seems to grow out of the barn, entirely because of where I stood to take the picture. The trees are bare; the sky looks like it might want to snow but will have to settle for rain. Once the tree leafs out, the barn, from this angle, will disappear. With all the development happening in our area, it may already be gone.