A little less gray today. A bright patch appears above the ridge and sinks toward the horizon, as if the sun had decided to go back to bed.

Gray. A rattle of sleet not in the forecast seems somehow illicit—as if the power of authorities to control borders extends to the heavens.

A dark dawn. The sound of water gurgling off to the right and trickling to the left, and in front of me the silence where it flows underground.

Windy and overcast. Bare branches sway and clatter. The scattered chirps of small birds gusting toward the feeders at the other house.

Clear and cold. Blazing through a forest’s worth of treetops, the rising sun looks feathery, a bit disheveled.