November Morning

My teapot whistles violently , it's bitter cold outside.  Fog is hanging about, a gauzy curtain among the trees.  Coffee.  Now I can begin.  Steam rises off the frosty roof.  Birds scavenge among rotting berries, what's left of summer.  I scuff through the park, my boots collect ice from the stiff frozen grass.  My camera feels cold, metal against a mitten-less hand.  I photograph trees in the morning light, foggy backdrop, glaring highlights on the icy grassy ground.  Early November trees are skeletal, mostly bare, hidden within themselves, asleep.  Snapshot.  My old Minolta finds a view.  Wind and snap again.  The mechanical sound of the camera is loud and alive in the stillness of the cold morning.  76 snapshots.  Branches and branches like a giant piece of coral from the sea.