December 2009

As if the slow December daybreak weren’t sufficient reward for sloth, today’s band of clouds in the east extend the sunrise almost to 9:00.

The temperature has dropped again. A clearing sky, and the woods are flooded with light from the newly reflective surface of the snowpack.

Dark clouds. Steady drum of meltwater. A locomotive with the low note of its whistle stuck open like a bagpipe drone moans through the gap.

A lowering sky, gravid with bad weather. Across the road, small birds crowd the stream, which makes a hollow gurgle under the icy crust.

The wind has died at last and the sun inches through the trees, appearing to chew into each side of a fat trunk as it slides behind it.

Yesterday’s slush has grown hard as cartilage. I watch a small flock of snowbirds hopping around on it, unfazed by the bitter wind.

With the temperature in the low 20s, the few clouds have that filmy, snow-filled look. Otherwise, a deep blue scribbled with white branches.

Steady sift of snow whitening every twig. But my eye is drawn to the one small patch of lawn grass left in the yard, those brave green tips.