Nature matted everything in white this week . . . sometimes shading silver. Or aquamarine. Even cerulean. White is a many-hued crayon and often all we need to photograph in snow is a great pair of boots. Once our lenses have sweated off the cold, the opportunities are endless. Snow in late February, for me, in southern Missouri, is wistful. It does not forebode dark days. Christmas was two months ago. Winter is over. Jonquils and crocus poke teasing fingers through the snowcrust and the plums and pears are fuzzy-budded. We know what’s coming and it is not hot chocolate and parkas and 4 p.m. sunsets. The birds know it, impatient with stale feeder fare, and people know it, as our inboxes fill with summer vacation temptations. The next thing is spring, and this late February snow is a played out trend. I approached this week’s snow photographs wistfully, then,
as if accompanying the old man off the stage. So much of a photographer’s mood translates into the artistry of an image. Lay people don’t always understand this, nor should they. But the aim of the photographer is to capture mournful, wistful, joyful as well as a clear image of a red barn on a snow white field. I call this photograph Winter's Last Stop as I ease the old man off the stage for the impatient new company of jugglers and fire eaters waiting in the wings.