The warmest morning in weeks: less than ten degrees below freezing! White ground, gray sky, and from at least three directions, the sound of gnawing.
cold
Having spent the below-zero portion of the morning snug in bed, I luxuriate in strong sunlight mediated only by the skeletons of trees. Down-hollow, a committee of crows has formed to spread awareness about the location of some poor, drowsy owl.
Cold not as deep as predicted due to a lid of cloud, which eases open in the east—just enough for the sun to flood the western ridge with light. The warble of a house finch.
Quiet except for the wingbeats of a raven. When the icy breeze dies, my breath begins to freeze to my glasses. Sun-sparkles in the snow fall victim to a bank of clouds.
The deep cold continues, with a fresh dusting of snow on the porch and high, thin clouds that sap the sun of its blaze. A bitter wind slips in under my coat.
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.
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.
Very cold and still. A fingernail moon slips through the trees’ dark digits. Dawn comes with a shift of radiance from the snow-covered ground to the sky.
Cloudy, windy, and bitter cold, but a house finch caroling by the springhouse sounds genuinely joyful — a soundtrack for the scattered snowflakes flying this way and that.
Cold and heavily overcast, with an inversion layer bringing the sounds of tires singing on the interstate, white-throated sparrows awakening in the meadow, and the clink of tin cans against birdfeeders from up at the other house, my mother clearing her throat.
Overcast and still. A squirrel running across the road drops the frozen walnut in her teeth, and it rolls along by itself for a few feet. Up on the ridge, a tree pops from the cold.
Cold and still. The sun is a bright smudge slowly shrinking into a blaze as the clouds thin out. A train horn blows an almost perfect minor chord.