Too late for the Golden Hour, but too early for midday, the morning Sun rode to its highest point transforming last night's frost into precious stones. And as the ice melted, the brighter it shone.

Cliché, I know.

The last vestiges of aspen leaves rustled in the wind--that decimated their ranks just a few days ago--challenging mountain tamaracks for amber supremacy. And the most resilient weeds reached upward to catch elusive sunlight.

Winter was on the way.