The hedge twitters. Not a single bird is visible, though all the branches are bare, but the flock is enormous, to judge by the clamor they raise.
The moon, like lemonade, is yellow against the pastel blue of the evening sky.
The clouds, unexpectedly, loom charcoal dark in the sky. Against them the sunlit branches of the leafless trees look ever more bright.
Walking through the winter -- snow fall covering all the grass, flakes falling but not enough to accumulate on the road, and leafless trees -- when the cries of geese come, from behind the woods. Waiting let the skein come clear-- no more than three of them, but the cries resounded.
An unkindness of ravens flitting about the neighbor, cawing and cawing, and the winds must have been greater than they felt to a walker, because in part of the flight, ravens hung in midair moving neither up nor down, neither forward nor backward.
A car hits the perfect spot of temperature. The smooth and even snow covering its hood flows off of it, breaking up as it goes, the sunlight having warmed the car until the layer melted, and gravity overcame friction.
A mourning dove's cries are loud in February. Early in the morning, or in the afternoon, the tolling note resounds across the roads.
The snow turns fairy-like as it melts, unevenly. Sometimes the dirt responsible discolors the delicate framework of crystals, but others it look like a pure white confection of gems forming an elaborate castle of many towers.
Birds in the air. One, when it swirls so I can see the underside of its wings, shows white there; the other two are dark -- a hawk and two ravens.
The wind blows, as if a deep wintry storm, and it makes it feel as if it is cold outside, though it's warm for February yet. (I walked without a jacket and wearing sandals today, and though it's dark now, it's warmer than some highs in the last week.)
On the rainy, misty day, all gray skies and mists below, the ponds are still utterly white though the snow is mere patches on the drab brown of the earth. Mist rises thickly over waters and snow.
A gray dove sits on the walkway, its wings folded, and looking as plump as a teapot.
Sprouts. Sprouts appearing here and there and in one sheltered nook, between a house and a stone wall, a crocus blossoms violet.
The wind does not howl past the house. That would require variation. It's as steady as a train trundling endlessly by -- and as loud, too.
The wind ruffles the pond, turning it a darker shade of blue beneath the clear sky, and the winter rushes are a brighter shade of gold in the sunlight for a colorful scene.