songs of early spring
Mar. 20th, 2022 04:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marycatelliThe scrap of white reveals itself to be the moon rather than an cloud only by its small size and its rotundity. As the evening approaches, it becomes more distinct, though the sky is still blue, but still just a white spot in the sky. Only as the sky turns colors near the horizon does it actually start to glow against the blue.
A hawk soars, so evenly held that its wings, their undersides white, are as rigid as an airplanes.
On a windy day, two small birds, black against the pure blue sky, flap endlessly forward, inching their way onward, and sometimes making no headway at all.
A pair of gulls soar over the street, white as snow except for the pure black tips of the wings. Behind them, crows, dark as night, flit over it far more quickly. Past them, a flock of birds swirls about, shifting from their black backs to their brilliantly white bellies and again.
Bird cries, and all the birds perched on the tree, both birds and branches black in the morning gloom, but the branches are spread out in thin tracery, and the birds are squat commas against the chill, until they launch themselves onto the lawn, looking for grubs between the patches of snow.
The riverine forests are all flooded, and frozen, and the ice often has sunk, or broken up as chunks on the earth, but it remains while the river itself is flowing freely.
A fox trots across the way and up the slope, its head low, its russet fur obviously marked with black. It is still visible on the slope from the road beside it, and with the sunlight on it, its body is all red; only its legs are black, and its tail is mottled.
Though spring is advancing, one north-facing slope, spread with leafless trees and pines, is entirely snow-covered yet.
A hawk, perched on the highest bough of a fir, is detectable because of its white belly, as in shape it's like the other boughs sticking out from the trunk, not in a mass.
The saplings in the woods are still covered with dead leaves. Unusually, they are still dark. Some are distinctly copper in shade, and those turning even gold are dark gold. None are even close to bleached white.
Green sprouts here, there, everywhere -- some with brownish tips, betraying overboldness, having been caught by the cold days earlier.
The ice about the trees has melted. The flood still engulfs them but glitters in the sunlight on its waves.
Honking draws the attention, and across a darkening blue sky, with wisps of clouds almost black, straight lines until they hook at the end, flies an enormous V of geese, for once two lines the same length with no offshoots -- but even as it flies, it collapsed, one line breaking apart and merging with the other.
On the chilly day, two rotund doves, both a brown touched with rose, perch on a front door stoop, puffed against the window.
The first spring flower buds violet, so that careful inspection of the leaves is necessary to verify that it's a crocus, not a dwarf iris.
A rising moon looms, though the sky is still so pale that it looks like a vast if rounded cloud. Only when the sky is deep blue does it show the pure white and small rotundity.
The blooming crocus in pale violet is joined by a darker violet dwarf iris. About the neighborhood, other crocuses bloom, sometimes in great clumps. The tips of tree branches are blushing with their red buds. Driving about sees sprouts, sometimes showing the hint of daffodil yellow, once a stand of dark purple crocuses visible even from the road. Driving about, however, misses the beauty of the early spring, which is the clear notes of the singing birds.
Light gleams behind the chimney, on wisps of cloud, giving a gothic look to the moonlight.
A flaming set of crocuses brightens a lawn. Others can be picked out, but only with care.
The mourning doves' note is deep and loud and long, like the tolling of a funeral bell.
A deep purple dwarf iris makes a crocus look pale violet, but the new crocus open and are an even paler violet. And the scilly is putting up its bright blue.
A hawk soars, so evenly held that its wings, their undersides white, are as rigid as an airplanes.
On a windy day, two small birds, black against the pure blue sky, flap endlessly forward, inching their way onward, and sometimes making no headway at all.
A pair of gulls soar over the street, white as snow except for the pure black tips of the wings. Behind them, crows, dark as night, flit over it far more quickly. Past them, a flock of birds swirls about, shifting from their black backs to their brilliantly white bellies and again.
Bird cries, and all the birds perched on the tree, both birds and branches black in the morning gloom, but the branches are spread out in thin tracery, and the birds are squat commas against the chill, until they launch themselves onto the lawn, looking for grubs between the patches of snow.
The riverine forests are all flooded, and frozen, and the ice often has sunk, or broken up as chunks on the earth, but it remains while the river itself is flowing freely.
A fox trots across the way and up the slope, its head low, its russet fur obviously marked with black. It is still visible on the slope from the road beside it, and with the sunlight on it, its body is all red; only its legs are black, and its tail is mottled.
Though spring is advancing, one north-facing slope, spread with leafless trees and pines, is entirely snow-covered yet.
A hawk, perched on the highest bough of a fir, is detectable because of its white belly, as in shape it's like the other boughs sticking out from the trunk, not in a mass.
The saplings in the woods are still covered with dead leaves. Unusually, they are still dark. Some are distinctly copper in shade, and those turning even gold are dark gold. None are even close to bleached white.
Green sprouts here, there, everywhere -- some with brownish tips, betraying overboldness, having been caught by the cold days earlier.
The ice about the trees has melted. The flood still engulfs them but glitters in the sunlight on its waves.
Honking draws the attention, and across a darkening blue sky, with wisps of clouds almost black, straight lines until they hook at the end, flies an enormous V of geese, for once two lines the same length with no offshoots -- but even as it flies, it collapsed, one line breaking apart and merging with the other.
On the chilly day, two rotund doves, both a brown touched with rose, perch on a front door stoop, puffed against the window.
The first spring flower buds violet, so that careful inspection of the leaves is necessary to verify that it's a crocus, not a dwarf iris.
A rising moon looms, though the sky is still so pale that it looks like a vast if rounded cloud. Only when the sky is deep blue does it show the pure white and small rotundity.
The blooming crocus in pale violet is joined by a darker violet dwarf iris. About the neighborhood, other crocuses bloom, sometimes in great clumps. The tips of tree branches are blushing with their red buds. Driving about sees sprouts, sometimes showing the hint of daffodil yellow, once a stand of dark purple crocuses visible even from the road. Driving about, however, misses the beauty of the early spring, which is the clear notes of the singing birds.
Light gleams behind the chimney, on wisps of cloud, giving a gothic look to the moonlight.
A flaming set of crocuses brightens a lawn. Others can be picked out, but only with care.
The mourning doves' note is deep and loud and long, like the tolling of a funeral bell.
A deep purple dwarf iris makes a crocus look pale violet, but the new crocus open and are an even paler violet. And the scilly is putting up its bright blue.
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Date: 2022-03-21 10:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2022-03-22 02:29 am (UTC)