The gibbous moon is almost full and hangs in the still day-blue sky, among small, compact clouds, only its rotundity betraying it.
As I walk down the walkway, a mourning dove, twittering, comes around a bush, sees me, and turns on the wing to flee, twittering the more.
The even fuller gibbous moon hangs among the clouds, the sky still pale blue, but the rotund clouds about it are showing more pink and blue than pure white, so it stands out among them.
The trees are alive with all sorts of tweets and cheeps and notes as a slew of different species settle into nesting.
The rising full moon on the hazy sky glows golden with an enormous halo.
A garden full of snowdrops all gleaming white -- and so I walk by the most sheltered garden in the neighborhood for the first palely violet crocuses.
The sky is all blue-gray with clouds, with just a bit of pinkish orange by the horizon, but as the sun descends, both pink and orange spread, until it reaches quite high, under the clouds, with the blue still lingering in the heights.
A crow flies downward, its wings so outstretched, catching the air, that all the feathers are separated like fingers of an outstretched hand.
The forest is silver and red -- all the trunks and boughs a gleaming gray, and all the branches touched with the buds in fiery red.
The forecast promises rain. I walk and I think to myself -- that's snow. Very, very light snow, a flake here and there, but snow. I drive off, and it's sleet, rattling against the car relentlessly. At first it leave no trace even of water, and the highway is dry as well as it sublimes so swiftly, but in due course you can see the tiny chunks of ice as they melt away.
A bird is perched on the telephone wires. A hawk. Admitted it's one of the thicker wires.
The flood plains, full of trees, are in full flood, the water very still, and very rough from the floating dead leaves, and the jagged glass-like pieces of ice forming overnight.
A rainy day leaves the budding branches still red, but the trunks turn to dark from wetness, except for the off-green lichen. A lone sapling stands with its leaves still on, but bleached to a creamy white by the winter sun.
Willow are easily seen among the trees -- the leaves are small and brilliantly pale green.
Two snow-white birds soar -- far too white to be geese.
The hills are red, with all the buds ready to burst, and patched here and there with vivid green from pines Higher up, the hills are a more ghostly shade of red, where the buds are not ready.
The garden is blue: new planted pansies and the very early dwarf irises, and scillia growing everywhere, and forget-me-nots putting out the first blue blossoms.
Avens has always seemed to me to be a late spring flower, but now the bright orange blooms, like single roses, are already nodding. Nearby the lungwort is putting out its flowers, bell-like, both pink and blue on the same stalk and sometimes the same flower.
The cherries are in pink bloom in the valley by the stream. I think of microclimes -- but at the top of the hill, the cherries are in pale pink bloom. Across the road stands another tree of bare branches, but when I walk up to see if it's dead, I see buds forming.
So gray is the sky that the river flood looks like it iced over during the night, and even reminding myself that it is, and was, too warm, can not shake that.
On the gray day, the woods are muted, even the tree buds are a crimson sort of red, and up the gray stream comes a heron, flying just above the waters.
Two stands of ghost-like off-white daffodils stand against the forest.
Wherever the swampy forest lies, the skunk cabbages are green, as thick as if they were planted for harvest.
A low-lying forest is so covered with vast puddles that not only are geese floating on it, but ducks are dabbling in the water, tails up as they feed, and half their bodies are submerged.
A roadside tree looks like it has charteuse-yellow flowers and it looks ghastly. (Even if it's possible I took new leaves for flowers.)
All at once, a green veil spreads over the hills, like the red one, where new buds are the pale new green.
Aconite, bright as buttercup, grows among the grass, with the violets that are indeed blue.
The wind is sharp, and the sand from winter is not swept up. It stings my legs and sneaks into my sandals.