Nor’easter

In “Nor’easter,” the world has been reduced to a single, hushed shade of white. A lone gray squirrel, fur crusted with snow, clings to the edge of a buried shepherd’s-crook feeder, its tiny paws pressed together as it nibbles a seed in defiant slow motion. The feeder itself is almost unrecognizable, transformed into a squat, snow-laden pagoda, its roof sagging under the weight of three relentless days of storm. Behind them, the background has vanished entirely; tree trunks, branches, sky, and ground dissolve into a uniform, swirling veil of gray-white, as if the photograph were taken inside a cloud that decided to settle on the earth and stay. Only the black curve of the metal hook and the faint glint in the squirrel’s dark eye interrupt the monochrome, anchoring the scene in quiet, stubborn life. The image feels less like a moment captured and more like a testament whispered through the blizzard: even in the heart of a three-day nor’easter, something small and determined keeps eating, keeps breathing, keeps going.