OUR YARD IN WINTER. My memories are filled with trees. As a child I spent a lot of time daydreaming, looking skyward through branches and leaves and blooms. In the winter, I favored making snow angels to snow men (less work, more reverie). Another chance for recumbent repose. As I point my camera north I recall just how it felt: cheeks chapped, arms and legs akimbo, mind filled. I can even taste the falling flakes.