Against the snowy ground stand the trees, mostly leafless, and the saplings standing here and there, still bearing theirs: one dark brown, one coppery, one a pale and weathered brown, one with the leaves all but white.
The snow blows in the wind, forming high dune with strirted surfaces, and blasting some places bare to the grass.
Is the moon the mist or the eclipse? Earlier it was full and round, but now the edge is darkened, and the features are all blurred away.
The rain comes, freezing, after the snow. The dead flower stalks, sticking up from the snow, are laced with ice, and as I drive off, the leafless trees against the sky hold up their fractal branches, except that though the boughs and branches are black as night against the gray sky, abruptly at the twigs, it turns to glowing white against the grayness.
Under the trees, the lake is just visible with its icy layer, and the snow under the trees is glazed from the freezing rain, make it hard to see where one lets off and the other begins.
I walk out of a building and see the sprout pushing up from the dirt: too large to be a crocus, a daffodil already. And then I look at my own garden and see sprouts too large -- and tinted too bright a red or orange -- to be anything but a tulip.
How clear the icicles are -- almost perfect ice, colorless and perfectly transparent.
Crocus! Cream and orange all in bloom. (And a couple of pinks putting out their red buds, too.) In the sheltered nook.
A beautiful, balmy day, the moistness in the air making even the buffets of wind gentle -- with clouds in sky from dove gray to charcoal.
In comes March like a stereotype, buffeting all with wind.
On the lake, where pale golden rushes stand here and there, the water shows some ice too thin to even been white; it can be seen in the tension in the water.
Flood rose, froze, fell -- the trees of the flood plain are surrounded by enormous broken chunks of ice, too solid to break away and float downstream with the withdrawing waters.