On a gray and rainy morning, a hawk perched on a leafless trees, its shoulder hunched against the wetness.
How lovely the rushes look, golden in the sunlight, with, all about them, the swamp-growing brush turning red in the little branches, ready to burst into leaves and blossoms
Glancing through the brown branches to the river reveals a torrent of white foaming about the brown boulders as the snowmelt rushes onward.
It snows, it snows, it fills the air with a mist of whiteness through which you can nevertheless see how all the dark and leafless trees have been traced with whiteness along every bough and branch -- and with the nightfall, you can see the moon, not the tiny sliver of the brand-new moon, but a definite crescent, hanging hazy in the sky as snow continues to fall -- and a bright, clear morning, with blue skies, shows that the trees are still lined with white.
The sun warms the black asphalt more than the snowy scene, so the snow there melts the first, around the edges. It had the perfect temperature contrast as I went out to lunch: little wisps of mists were forming over it, as they do over a lake.
A morning scene is pale with snow below and pinks and yellows of dawn above, but a goose flying across it is silhouetted and sharply black.
A snowy field, bordered with grasses tall and golden, has a crow fly up and land in its midst.
The southern-face snow is eaten away by sublimation in the sun, and turns to a delicate fairy lace.
Geese flying, forming their skeins into lop-sided Vs -- in one array, a goose is caught outside and steadily catches up, flap, flap, flap -- except that at the last moment, as it glides into position, it holds its wings steady. Only once it has joined up does it start to flap its wings again.
Trees all the palest of browns, like cookies sugared over, as they bend by the side of the highway.
flying low overhead, the most compact of all v's -- three geese in a tidy little one.
Ducks on the choppy water of the bay, breasting the waves with some difficulty, though once they were parallel, they looked as calm as usual.
Gulls flying about, and I keep thinking -- those are awfully short wings for a gull. Perhaps they're young. Or a different species of gull than I'm used to.
On the hillside, there's an odd brown shape, a twisted tree -- except that it comes clear as a deer, a doe, watching the traffic roll by, stark against the snow.
It starts to rain, or perhaps sleet, and the noise of it rattling on the roof and gutters sounds like a squirrel or a bird skittering along the roof.
Rain falls. Night grows colder, and the rain still falls. In the morning, the branches are all gleaming, jewel-like, in the morning light, and the pines are all frosted with white even as they shed ice and droplets in the morning's new warmth.
Snow is melting. All the slopes of pure white are turning to dimpled stretches, like slightly irregular honeycomb.
Sunlight glances from the pool in the stream, and next to its diamond brilliance, the ripples of water besides it look black.
Warmth melts the snow on the deck sending it dripping between the planks -- and icicles form, as clear and colorless as the best plate glass, long and pointed and completely transparent.