marycatelli (marycatelli) wrote,
marycatelli
marycatelli

scraps of winter

The waterfall is two ribbons of foaming white gushing over the rocks, one branch forking again over the lower rocks -- the hurriciane filled them up, but not so high as the torrents of spring will.

Gray billows of cloud capping the sky, but down near the horizon, the sky shows, a delicate shade of blue, almost green, like a robin's egg.

How odd it feels to walk about the block after a nor'easter, and the ground is blanketed in snow, and one tree, having lost no leaves, still overwhelmingly green with only the faintest tinges of red and yellow, sits serenely in the midst of the whiteness as if it were still September for it.

The mist spreads so thickly that there is a luminous veil of white through which the nearest trees can be seen, skeletonal branches dark against the brilliance, and the sun itself, milky white and burning, but nothing else, neither the hills nor even the farther trees.

Early in the morning, sunrise only color on the horizon, the swell of the lawn is dark, dark, dark green, a shade like emeralds.

Mist haunts the roads with its thickness, dissolving them all into a likeness. I drive more slowly during lunch, and while reaching a traffic light I think yes this is my turn, no it is not, oh yes it is turn on the blinker fast and get over there -- awkward having two lights along a straight stretch of highway. They have some landmarks about them but the fog was so thick. . . .

A tree stand silhouetted, leafless, against the light, both behind it and to one side. The berries have not all been eaten, and gleam red as rubies -- transmitting the light. The birds that perch and feast are less so. The slanting light shows their shape, and even on one side, a little of their color, but that brownish bird with a pointed head -- a she-cardinal or some kind of nuthatch?

The evening sky is so dark it is trapped between blue and green and impossible to distinguish them, and the new moon is the tinest of golden slivers, and up above is the old moon, as the saying goes, in its arms, the stygian shade of blue and green of the sky --almost. You can make out the whole roundness of it, dwarfing the golden light.

A little slip of a crescent moon, against the sapphirine blue sky -- with just the hint of the fullness of its round shape, reflecting back a trace of the old moon.

A November morn, even in December, even near Christmas: the sky all gray and dreary, the trees bare, their bark brown and dark from rain -- except for the saplings that are carrying still leaves a coppery shade of brown, the same shade as the leaves that carpet the forest floor.

The sky is blue with the white clouds puffy -- except that one is not puffy, but rounded on one side, and flat on the other. The moon looms among the clouds as it does when rising.

The geese flying up from the field, not yet an orderly v, but a long and shifting sequence, like the swirl of smoke.

It rains, and it rains, and it rains, and the wind blasts it over the road -- it seems more like a hurriciane's ghost than the winter storm it is, especially since the day is warmer than those before. I sit before the red light, and my car is angled just right for the blast of wind to send raindrops across the windshield in long ovals.

The scattering of snow is melting off the trees as the sunlight slants over them, and both the branches and the droplets gleam like diamonds.

A hawk soars over the highway, its wing unmoving, but so close to the cars that I can see the feathers turning in the wind.

The sunset has brought the sun behind the hills, though it still lights up the sky and the hovering mists with peach-colored light. And one hillside -- most are silhouetted against the sky, but this one is swathed in roseate light like an enchanted land.

The geese fly in mass, in a v that forks, and forks again, over a field snowy with January. Not flying south, not in this month -- probably just flying about.

On the bare brown branches, songbirds perched, silhouetted, like plump commas scattered about.

Ahead along the road, geese are flying. If you look with care, you see the skeins, but they fly so low to the road, that the skeins meet and intermingle to the eye, more like a sheet than a v.

A waterfall sprawls over the stones, still foaming over the two paths downward -- without moving, all of it ice.

A peacock sky, rising over the dark hills that hide the rest of the sunset, so it shows only the peacock green shade rising up to blend into the peacock blue.

From the lit room, I can see the curve, the light yellowish with the touch of red, like something seen through the juice of marchiso cherries. The moon does not loom, though I know it is rising behind hills, because the darkness puts all in shadow. Except for the light before the townhouse, which is rounded and, while not quite so yellowish, looks very like the moon, and would look more if it were behind somthing that would cut it off. The moon rises slowly, loses the red and glowing like honey, but does not loom -- until minutes later, when, pure white, it shines behind the clouds, illuminating them into rags of black and silver, and so signalling that it is far away.

The snow fell, not thickly, and the brown cliff-face is now speckled white and brown, like an owl's plummage -- though nothing else about it looks like an owl.

Mist in the morning, twining white through the brownish trees, and the saplings still bearing their pale golden leaves, and over the snow.

Over ponds, the mist thickens till it is pure white like a pearl. On the return trip, the mist is cleared enough to show the pure white ice of the pond, which must have helped.

Another lake is silvery grayish in the gray day, with swans floating on it and showing their whiteness against it.

The windstorm sweeps through and howls about the house, loud enough to keep me awake. Added, sometimes, by the pelting and hammering of rain on the roof and the skylight, but mostly just the wind howling, and howling, and howling, and sometimes it must hit a resonanting frequence, because things inside the house rattle.

How much an upheaval the stormy sky appears afterwards -- more than while the storm is at its fullest. Clouds in all shades of gray and cobalt blue, shifting and stirring, and showing scraps of blue that look like rags among them. Sunlight shining on pines gilds them, and makes every needle sharp against the threatening dark clouds behind them. Bare branches silhouetted against the light, with the little birds perched on them and fluffed up against the wind that bent branches and even boughs, and the clouds about it were dark gray, making even the scrap of blue they were silhouetted against not look like clearing.

The days are warm, the rains are hard -- the waterfall has thinned. Where ice billowed over stone, now only a column of ice still stands.

A day for hawks. One perched on a branch, all fluffed up against the cloud, its creamy, brown-flecked belly rounded from it. One soared by the roadside, and perched. Another just flew over the highway. Yet another perched by the roadside, giving a sideways view such that only by realizing the distance and so the size could you tell it was not a songbird.

A frozen lake has but a single gap of dark water in the whiteness. Black and white with distance, the swans and geese congregate thickly there.

A stream runs down the center of the highway median, fringed with white ice, winding among the leafless trees, spreading into a marsh with yellow cattails.

Tags: nature
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