Earlier today we left the comfort of the fire and ventured east of the Cascades to open spaces where the sun almost always shines. We hoped to see some snow. We traveled the backroads searching for what there was to see, open to whatever presented itself. The only photograph I missed was of a bent over old man checking his mailbox (Sunday paper perhaps?) His down jacket patched with frayed duct tape, feathers sticking out around the edges. I would have liked to photograph that frugal man. The shadows were long when we stopped at the hilltop cemetary. We found the oldest settlers there. Their names matching the back roads we had traveled. We turned west to watch the pink leave the peaks on our home bound way. As we drove into our place there was the moon at the end of the lane welcoming us home, refrains from Clair de lune in the air.