March in Maine is a study in shades of gray. And wetness. It is also often cold. The wetness combined with the chill creates days which my dad would have called, "bitter cold." I can clearly recall him saying those words; I can see the shape of his mouth, teeth clenched over the stem of his pipe. I can imagine him giving a little shiver as he shakes off his coat, "Brrr. It's bitter cold."
These are the kinds of days that I leave my camera at home when I go outside. The local scenery does not lend itself to breathtaking vistas. Or does it?
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