Just when I thought my eyes were open (to all manner of snowy images in unwitting black-and-white), something happened. The sky — the whole sky — turned pink.
Neither my camera nor I could handle it ... our eyes only half-open, as it turns out, due in part due to half-spent batteries and in part to coldcold air as I ran slipping and sliding down the familiar hill from home with utter impatience for any/all signals saying, "Wait."
I ended up on my tummy, on purpose (!), at the end of the Ann Street Pier, beside the dinghy dock, behind the Armory containing untold numbers of antiques — to be replaced, potentially, next summer, by a salvage museum. And there I attempted to capture it: the pink.
But, by then, the pink had faded (brightened?) to yellow, where it hung for what seemed like a very long drawn-out moment before melting, despite the temperature, into reflections of purple and ultimate black. My fingers were frozen beyond feeling, beyond functioning. And one of my favorite woolen mittens was missing. It had blown/flown off the pier, across the dinghy-less dock, and was floating (still floating!) toward the ice-and-trash-littered beach.
We — my camera and I — managed a rescue, with some focus.
We rescued the mitten, I mean ... with that sort of focus.
As for the pink, perhaps it's not all about focus ...