Dawn sunlight between two buildings, gilding a stretch of grass.
The sun sets, not in a medley of colors but in a band of tangerine, with misty blue above it, and the trees' bare branches starkly black against it
Out on the gray waters of the lake beneath the clouds, among all the pure white swans, there are floating -- probably geese. It's hard to tell with distance. And they looked completely black, as if black swans had flown in.
The moon in the sky is purest of white, and descends to setting, turning creamy, and then orange -- and when a hillside blocks out most of the crescent, so that only two orange bits protrude, it's hard to tell what it was for a minute.
The sky overhead, through gaps in gray cloud, is blue, but down near the horizon, where there is another gap, it stretches a robin's-egg green shade. It shifts, too slowly to be seen, toward a robin's egg blue, paler and more pastel than the sky overhead.
Four deer in the January woods -- a deciduous woods, before snowfall, so they are all but invisible in the deer-brown trees and forest floor.
The sun through the clouds, its circular shape muzzy, its color silvery.
A sky brilliant with color: the sky itself robin's egg blue, the clouds slate gray and rich rosy red, and where the sunlight from the hidden sun strikes the cloud, a lambent gold.
Snow gathering and heaping up on the nooks and crannies of a cliff-face, so that with the dark rock still speckling it, it looks like the plumage of a snowy owl. A juniper tree, much like it, also has the flecks of dark in the whiteness
Mackerel skies, all over -- every inch of it spread with the even rows of clouds like fish scales -- though not every inch of it aligned with all the others, such that great swathes of even clouds are at angles to others.
How misty the moon looks, even far above the clouds tinted rose and peach, in the darkening blue of the sky. It takes on more form as the sky turns black, even though it shows the new moon with the old moon in its arms.
An oak, its leaves shriveled into claws, and as golden as coins that have long laid in a trove and gained a patina.
A quarter moon in the midday sky, white against it like another cloud. Only its shape betrays it.
One oak lost branches in the storm, except that they still hang, upside down, in the other boughs. The branches still attached to the tree are leafless, but the loose branches still have their coppery leaves.