Bare trees dance wildly in the wind, branches clacking like castanets. Snowmelt dripping from the roof flies back up toward the fast-moving clouds.
clouds
Cold, overcast, and quieter even than Christmas day. An hour past sunrise, the sky brightens a little. Two crows fly past, yelling. The gloom returns.
Cold, quiet, and mostly clear for the solstice. Small clouds turn blood-red at dawn, fade to yellow, then turn a lurid orange at sunrise. A red squirrel pauses at the edge of the porch to glare at me.
Patches of blue sky open and close as snowmelt drips from the roof. An oak leaf cartwheels up the icy driveway.
Sunday-morning silence deepened by fresh snow, with flakes still flurrying about. A band of orange appears in the clouds. The furnace under the house rumbles to life.
Waiting for a weather system that stays west of the Allegheny Front, I give up on the chance of snow, go in just as the sun burns through the clouds—a smear of blaze.
The sky and ground nearly rhyme in their oppressive whiteness. A red squirrel sounds as if he’s having a psychotic break, trying to defend a hollow black locust no doubt stuffed with acorns and walnuts.
An hour past sunrise, there’s a growing radiance as blue sky spreads in the west. Even after all these years of wildlife-watching, I can’t stop marvelling at the acrobatics and shenanigans of gray squirrels.
The clouds begin to thin by mid-morning, lightening the gloom. The hollow hulk of a dead maple next to the road emits nuthatch calls.
White ground and a white sky, with only the trees to keep them apart. The squirrels are still avoiding the snowy sides of limbs, except when they need a spot to sit and work on a nut.
Heavily overcast, with a brief insinuation of pink at two minutes till sunrise. The fluting of tundra swans draws my eye to a high, ragged convoy just disappearing over the ridge.
Heavy gray skies and a bitter wind drop snowflakes in my lap—little six-spoked wheels. A red squirrel at the edge of the porch looks annoyed to find me in its seat.
Overcast at sunrise, with just three small clouds turning pink. The top roof drips dew onto the porch roof: a rhythmless percussion. Each time I look up from my book, there’s more blue.
Freezing fog that lifts after sunrise into a gray woolen sky, leaving frosted branches for the squirrels—gray or red, cautious or pell-mell.