Curtains of snow are falling and falling without a sound, except for the occasional outbreak of squabbling among the clearly delighted snow birds. The growing collection of snowflakes in my lap seems to include far more needles than stars.
Deep cold. Somewhere up on the ridge, an oak’s icy heartwood goes off like a gun. Ten minutes before sunrise, the eastern sky turns blood-red. A Carolina wren offers the briefest of commentaries.
Cold, windy, and mostly clear for the hour between sunrise and the actual appearance of the sun. Wriggling my fingers for warmth, I watch a small cloud acquiring a glow as it sails off east.
Last night’s snow is still falling as wind sweeps through the forest, shaking the trees down. Meltwater drips from the porch roof. Rhododendron leaves, no longer tightly curled against the cold, shimmer in the sun.
A cold, white expanse of sky with one small blaze off through the trees. It’s quiet. A squirrel chiseling a walnut shell is the loudest thing.
Blue sky, orange clouds, and the temperature so far below freezing, the slightest breeze turns my cheeks numb. After a while I notice the complete absence of squirrels.
Cold and still at dawn, with widely spaced snowflakes that continue slowly falling for hours as the shapes of things emerge from the darkness, the valley traffic and the birds start up, and the sky lightens to a sullen gray.
Another dusting of snow. An hour past sunrise, the clouds above the ridge ease open just enough for the sun to glower through for two minutes.
A dusting of snow that will be gone by the afternoon, under a sky hoarding its white. A downy woodpecker’s machine-gun burst of taps.
A wedge of blue sky opens at sunrise. Four pileated woodpeckers in the hollow take turns drumming, two low, two high. Half an hour later, it’s gray and quiet.
Unable to read due to flying snow, I start a collection of asterisks in my lap. When the wind dies, I can hear my mother yelling at the squirrels.
Heavily overcast and loud with train and traffic noise. Two geese fly over the house without making a sound.
An hour past sunrise, the sun finally hits my porch. A gray squirrel is hectoring all and sundry about some long-gone hawk. The cardinal sings.
Sunrise. A spirited argument breaks out between a raven and some crows as the sky’s ephemeral pagentry fades to gray.