Monday December 03, 2018

The western ridge shines golden against dark clouds for a few minutes before the sun goes in. A gunshot. The gurgling of the stream.

On this date

Cloud cover riddled with blue holes, though the sun remains hidden. From beside the springhouse, a higher-pitched, thinner chickadee call. …

The snow has retreated to the tops of logs. A squirrel's scold-calls blend with the whine of traffic from over the ridge. A patter of rain. …

Half a degree above freezing, but it's enough to melt last night's snow everywhere the weak sunlight reaches. Quiet but for the trains. …

After last night's wind, the trees are finally almost bare. I close my eyes against the sun and a lurid sky with dark lacework rises up. …

A hawk glides north along the ridge, a dark eyebrow sliding over the gray sky. Behind and below my chair, something is gnawing at the house. …

The rain that drummed on the roof all night continues, but no longer turns everything it touches to ice like a cheap King Midas. …

The last of the snow is gone, and the moss that lay under it for a week looks greener than ever. A distant train horn blows a minor chord. …

Parallel bands—old contrails—score the northeast sky. In the front garden, I spot a mantis egg case sparkling high in the witch hazel. …

With the leaves down I can see not only farther, but deeper: through a maze of lilac branches, I spot a rabbit when its dark eye blinks. …

Creak and rattle from the woods. A distant gunshot. Overhead, the shapely cumulus could almost be a summer sky, if it didn't move so fast. …

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

It's cold—the porch floorboards pop when I come out—and still as a tomb. The distant calls of a female great-horned owl go unanswered. …

Clear and very cold. I hear squirrel teeth on walnut shell. The Carolina wren's happiness motor turns over once, twice, then putts to life. …

The Morning Porch