The Copper Yeti and I spent part of the holiday week on Cape Cod in what may become a custom (this is the third time we have done so in winter). We roamed Wellfleet, Eastham and Orleans, art galleries and national seashore trails, beaches and ponds.
At this time of year, the bleached bones of that sliver of land are visible – and it’s even more beautiful than its spring and fall ripeness, if possible. It is quiet, stark. It shimmers with transparent membranes and glass shards. The slightest spot of color is as vivid as the blood of Snow White’s mother on the windowsill. And there are the unexpected notes of grace: the feathery eddies of a brief snow shower lit by the cold fires of Sirius and Orion; a swan pair floating in a mirror-still lake under a bottomless girdle of Venus; the casual last-minute decision to visit a gallery and discover six Michael Whelans on its walls.
This is all I know, and all I need, of heaven.