Night. The sky all cloudy, hiding both moon and stars. The geese, their skein invisible, still flying, and calling in the distance.
A stream down a hillside is a foaming white from the rain swell.
Cascades in full flood, a dozen or more, water flowing from one to the next, and forking to form waterfalls next to each other, over the shelves of rock.
In the gray day, every now and again, among the lawns of the dreary green and brown of winter, there is a house with a lawn of bright and solid if sickly yellow. It always stops quite abruptly, too.
A waterfall foams with water the color of cream.
The sun is still high up in the sky but the sky is scattered with thin clouds, some like fish scale, some just thin blankets, and the light refracts through them as if through finely sliced crystals, and are tinted with pinks and creams and blues like sunrise.
Truly it is winter. Not the dingy scenes everywhere, but the way the cliff-faces that face north have ice dripping down where the water escaped only to find itself freezing as it falls. One cliff-face had raw rock in yellow-red shades of clay and the dead leaves and dead grass both golden and stark against the snow white ice.
It predicts snow. I wonder in the evening, and look out to see the layer over cars and roofs. But, on the other side of the house, I see the blades of grass still pushing up through the white; perhaps it's the wind.
Snow. Snow everywhere. And on top -- freezing rain. In places so thin you can see the grass blades. But the stalks of loosestrike in my garden lean over so far that they are flat, and trees look like snapshots taken in a hurriciane, and on the way to church, there was a litter of pine branches where the crew cleared up the bough itself but didn't bother with the rest -- there being so much clean up to do.
All things, all about, all encased in crystal, but not so lovely as usual, because the storm did not give way to sun, and they do not glitter. It makes it dingy. Until, I look up, and the sun is not quite setting, but at the right angle to catch all the icy trees outside the winodw, and make them glow with gold. It fades within moments as the sun descends farther. Moments later the branches are dark -- but fiery wisps of cloud fly over them, before a sky of cloudy gray, where the higher clouds are steady and filling the sky.
The moon shines. A street light is white. The apple trees is an uncanny tangle of matte black lined with glowing diamond whiteness.
The sun shines and the trees gleam, burning a pure brilliant white.
A bough stands up like an upside-down tree, all aglitter, and it takes a moment to find where on the tree it broke off. It did some kind of flip over the other branches to land where it did.
Sun shines. Snow melts. Water flows, under a car -- to where it is colder. It freezes. The form of it is like the smooth rock of lava flow.
I rouse up in the morning and look out the window. Everywhere the snow and ice melted except for where I consider whether that's a muddy puddle or a muddy spread of ice -- it is not until I'm downstairs that I can confirm it's ice still.