Ottawa is a grey place. The native stone is grey, and so are the natives (except for my friends, who are anything but!). I get a sense of limitation when I'm there; a feeling that people aren't looking much beyond their three bedroom three bathroom two car garage big box store served artificial neighbourhoods. This is troubling since it is the capital, and policy is made here. There are sparks of life; Bank Street has nice shops and interesting restaurants. I walked to the market looking for some colour, but apart from some Christmas greenery and mass-produced Andean (sic) hats and mitts, there wasn't much to be found. Still, I did my best to look for some. I found it in a bead shop just off the market and in some frozen crabapples hanging on for dear life to stark black branches.
As I left the city, the skies were leaden and snowflakes were starting to swirl about. More grey, but an entirely different feel. The clouds made great sweeping patterns across the wide flats.
Thousands of geese were hunkering in the stubble fields, gathering for their southward flight, their grey backs touched with chocolate. Great stands of grey trees tossed their branches in the wind.
And for colour? A husky and a hound tearing at the ribs of a deer, freshly killed on the road. A reminder that we are flesh and bone. That is something one might forget in the cubicles of power.