The sun is shy this time of year. It hides behind snow-filled clouds and even when the clouds break apart or take a break and head off elsewhere the sun stays low and circumspect, hiding below the bare branches of the trees, as if afraid to peek out and hit us full blast because it knows how weak it is, knows that at this time of year it cannot warm us. Fact: Right now, cloudy days are warmer than clear days. Come late January or some odd day in February there will be a sunny day and we will all turn around and wonder: What the heck is that? Warmth? Where is it coming from? Oh! Aha! The sun! You old friend ... But right now, as we approach the winter solstice and the shortest, lowest span of sunlight this year, our bright old friend is weak and ineffectual. And it knows it.
Today (at the moment) is a brightly sunny day. Just after daybreak the mercury in the thermometer outside the kitchen window noodled around just above 10 degrees. Now it has fallen below that mark. Long grey and black shadows stretch across a crusty yard of snow, contrasting sharply with its whiteness. Yesterday it was cloudy, snowing, raining. At about 35, 36 degrees the snowflakes were large, loose, and laden with moisture; they eventually gave themselves up to rain. All day we anticipated and talked about the predictions: snow to rain to falling temperatures to ice to bitter cold to hazardous driving.
But before all that I took a walk with the dogs up to the bend in the river. The trail cuts through a narrow woods of red and white pine, cedar, maple, birch and beech that survives as a buffer between the river and the road. It is pleasurable in all seasons, but in winter, after a snowfall, it is a wonderland. Each pine needle captures its allotment of snow and holds it out for inspection, a multi-level display that towers over us like church steeples and protects us like canopies and mosquito nets. The smallest twig is highlighted, the merest slip of dried grass is accented, and the snow crowns the littlest conifer with the brightest tiara. It undulates and flows; it covers and whispers and beckons. The snow helps us to see a world that was there all along.
Just before the bend I noticed a tan X created by a couple of dry stems of grass lying in the snow by the side of the trail. I paused, thinking, "'X' marks the spot." But what spot is this? A spot I walk by every day, just about, a spot along the morning trail. The X is in front of a tree, a young white pine dressed up in its seasonal fringe. Without any thought it comes to me: "This is my gift."
In the winter my old dog Buster wears a coat to help keep the cold off his 13-year-old arthritic neck. Most often it is a red coat, which helps to prevent his blondeness from melding and disappearing into the winter white. He dashes down the trail, chasing and overtaking his friend Queenie, knocking snow off lower branches as he brushes by.
Today (at the moment) is a brightly sunny day. Just after daybreak the mercury in the thermometer outside the kitchen window noodled around just above 10 degrees. Now it has fallen below that mark. Long grey and black shadows stretch across a crusty yard of snow, contrasting sharply with its whiteness. Yesterday it was cloudy, snowing, raining. At about 35, 36 degrees the snowflakes were large, loose, and laden with moisture; they eventually gave themselves up to rain. All day we anticipated and talked about the predictions: snow to rain to falling temperatures to ice to bitter cold to hazardous driving.
But before all that I took a walk with the dogs up to the bend in the river. The trail cuts through a narrow woods of red and white pine, cedar, maple, birch and beech that survives as a buffer between the river and the road. It is pleasurable in all seasons, but in winter, after a snowfall, it is a wonderland. Each pine needle captures its allotment of snow and holds it out for inspection, a multi-level display that towers over us like church steeples and protects us like canopies and mosquito nets. The smallest twig is highlighted, the merest slip of dried grass is accented, and the snow crowns the littlest conifer with the brightest tiara. It undulates and flows; it covers and whispers and beckons. The snow helps us to see a world that was there all along.
Just before the bend I noticed a tan X created by a couple of dry stems of grass lying in the snow by the side of the trail. I paused, thinking, "'X' marks the spot." But what spot is this? A spot I walk by every day, just about, a spot along the morning trail. The X is in front of a tree, a young white pine dressed up in its seasonal fringe. Without any thought it comes to me: "This is my gift."
In the winter my old dog Buster wears a coat to help keep the cold off his 13-year-old arthritic neck. Most often it is a red coat, which helps to prevent his blondeness from melding and disappearing into the winter white. He dashes down the trail, chasing and overtaking his friend Queenie, knocking snow off lower branches as he brushes by.
