The color of reflections
The beauty of the Blue Hills, for someone who lives deep in Boston, is that it's so close and mostly looks just the way the jumble of woods near my home in New Hampshire looked. Not curried and manicured, just a riot of second growth saplings and rotted trees fallen in the woods, no doubt without a sound. No, not wilderness by any stretch but a quick way out of some of that urban overwhelm.
But while the woods around this pond were unremarkable at best, the reflections were another matter. They glistened with water's ripples and echoed colors that I would swear were not in the woods they mirrored. There's surely some science to explain this magic but I won't trouble to look for it. It was enough to see this and note another minor mystery.
No comments posted.