Frosted ferns, 216

The countryperson's question at this time of year, in archetype asked by old gammers sitting around the woodstove at the general store, would be this: Just how cold did it get last night? Well, of course the gents would have meant, just before the sun came up, which is the thermometer's ebb tide, but verbal quibbles aside, I have the answer: 23 degrees F. That was plenty cold... cold enough to be glad I managed to cut and split enough stove wood before my joints went south, and certainly cold enough to need the woodstove going. Also cold enough to need almost-winter armor when I went for a walk in search of genuine silver. I had on a real parka, a wool hat, and heavy-duty gloves when I left the house, and, to keep my camera functional in what was definitely more than the chill—it was downright cold—I kept the dSLR inside my jacket. Perhaps I'd miss an action picture or two, but that wasn't my objective anyway. The shots I was after were of objects that weren't going anywhere. The "models," this morning, were frosted into inaction, with plants, like this fern, wearing thick and sparkling coats of ice crystals. The temperature put the frost in the "killing" category, but we'll have to see just who succumbed.