Opening the window on a New Year reveals leafless trees, grass still green but growing dingy, and a sky of lumpish gray clouds.
A rainy day. Sky flat gray, all the leafless trees dispirited brown and dripping, all the evergreens and grass a dingy shade of green -- drabness everywhere. But when noon time rolls about it, it's a mysterious silvery luminosity, with the tree branches fractal against the sky.
It snows, it snows, it layers the ground with white smoothness -- at least, when I see the steep slope where the grass pokes through, I tell myself it must be sheltered from the wind, but then, frequently, there are places where plants still break through, and not always where the tall dead weeds stand.
In the evening, after the snow, the sky is royal blue, and the snow beneath is bluish with evening over the lawns and over the rooftops. In a dark brown house, a window glows like amber against it.
The coneflower seeds, dark and bristling about all about, have caps of snow that tower up like Russian soldiers'.
A peacock sky, with blue shading into peacock blue, and peacock green, and green (with the dusky yellow and red only low by the horizon). With the right hill in the way, it is all peacock shades.
The sun rises on a cloudless day. A roof shadows another, snow-covered roof. The demarcation is not so much dark against light, but bluish against yellowish.
Grackles. Grackles in January, the dingy black with spreads of iridescence where the sun catches them right, making them unmistakable as the great flock spreads over the lawn, each bird pecking away at the earth. This is a sign it's time to plant. (Since they are eating grubs, which means grubs have hatched, which means the ground is not frozen.) Nevertheless, no seed will go into the ground from my hand for many a day.
Rat-tat-tat goes the sleet on the roof -- and by morning, though it has never been below freezing, the ground is covered -- and, without going below freezing, all day and the next night and the next day, slowly and reluctantly, it eventually melts away.
Bright green crocus sprouts in the January garden. sigh. At least it's late January, and not the Christmas crocuses of last year. . . and pansies are still putting out orange flowers in the warm spells.
A snowy day is enchantment in white, with the air and sky one mingled white, and the rising branches outlined in white.
The sun in the sky and to either hand, stretching out, are the sundogs, in full rainbow splendor, with every shade from red to violet aglow.