Glancing out the window shows that it's not rain that's coming down, because some of it moves lightly upward with the wind. It's snowing.
When the rains are heavy, the streams show it long before they burst their banks. The water rushes along, carrying too much earth to be anything but opaque, and it buries anything in its path leaving only the swirls in the water to mark the snags.
Such contrasts -- the sky is pale shades of red and yellow and blue in sunset, and by the road, the rushes are the pale wintry gold, and between the leafless tress are black, and the enormous flock of bird, perched on every branch of scores of trees, are black as well -- larger than songbirds smaller than crows, and having no other clue to their species.
The sky is dove gray. Below, the lake is shimmering silvery gray. Between, spread the rushes, the palest of golds with winter, and leafless trees their bark gray in the misty light. Swans float, sleeping, on the waters, their heads tucked up and their feathers white as snow.
A bird flies over the road, arching in its path, and for a moment it looks like a crow -- a very big crow -- until it arches around and the light falls right on it, showing its head, and its true color: wild turkey. Landing, it struts off.
Last night I saw the new moon with the old man in its arms: against the sky where the sunset melted into the evening sky, so that it hung against a peacock blue touched with green, its crescent tiny and fragile, a shade of delicate ivory, and the full circle even more wispy beside it -- but a circle in full.
Ice forming on the brooks, as delicate as spider webs, still colorless but its shapes distinct, like broken plate glass with spider web cracks.
How pale the scene looks after freezing rain. Yellow grass turns almost flaxen, the grass still green turns a pale minty shade, and the brown of bark is gentled. Snow, on the other hand, lines up along the branches and boughs and with its whiteness makes the rest look dark.
A lake lies under the bright clear sky and reflects back its brilliant blue. Huddled together, a little off-center is an enormous flock of geese and swans, so intermingled that the black birds and the white are evenly spread in the rather small circuit.
Ah, such a strange December. Having three snowstorms is not, in itself, odd. Having the snow cover remain for weeks is not. There were only very rare flecks of where it melted back, as if it were January. Just on the solstice, it warmed up and started to melt -- eating at the side of the snow on the east side of the house, clearing off the south (where my snapdragons aren't dead yet), forming a dark puddle in the snow in the hollow -- and when I woke up this morning, I looked out the window on a scene without snow. Here and there, as if it were March or April there are heaps of filthy snow where it was plowed and is slowly melting away, leaving the sand. The day after it looks like November -- gray and all the shades somber in the rain.
The sun half-filtered by the trees as it rises -- too bright to not look away at once, but just dim enough that you can see how it, like the rising moon, looks too large.
The evening sunset slants, rosy red, over the slope and on the tree where mourning doves perch among the brownish-gray branches, turns both branches and birds into a shade of ruddy brown.
The snow on the ground looks like the breast of a hawk or grouse, the pure white speckled with brown almost like a pattern where twigs or leaves protrude.
The waterfall looks thin, almost invisible, until a cold snap follows torrential downpour; then it looks like vast white column. A few days later, in a warm spell, it turns to a still large column, foaming pure white over the rock.
how delicate the sky looks with a golden sunset with wisps and streaks of slate blue cloud scattered about it.
The mist shifts often in the morning. At first it is gilded from within by the sunrise, and the frosty grass is golden as well. But shortly thereafter, down the road, it is a milky white, with the trees ash brown in its midst, and the only gold the pale leaves still clinging to a sapling. And shortly thereafter, oak trees and dead grass along the way are a coppery wall to one side.
The ice forms on the cliff-faces, water delicately dripping down and freezing there, in a lacy web of pure whiteness.
As the snowfall shifts away from Boston, with the clouds, the bay gets glancing sunlight. It burns whiter than the snow all about from the glow.
Little shoots, spurting green. I did plant bulbs last fall, and some early blooming -- it is, after all, closer to spring than it is to fall -- but we still have a week until February!
How icy the woods get, with rainfall puddling as if it were spring, only to face the frosty night.