winter white
Feb. 18th, 2018 10:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marycatelliFlood and frost have surrounded the boles of the trees with solid smooth whiteness.
Snow on every branch, and dark birds flitting about, sharp in contrast.
Mist fills the landscapes, smooth and even, and pale gray. It even obscures the dark hilltop that manages to rise above the thickness. Such that it looks like a long, lumpy dark gray cloud floating in a gray sky.
The moon is rising over a cloudbank. Not a scrap of it visible, but the air is a halo of pale gold.
Rain turns to snow. The car is covered with rain that froze, a thick crust, and two doors simply will not open, for all the effort put into it. When I start the car, it complains that a door is ajar, and I worry that my efforts jammed the frozen doors that way. I get out to scrape. While standing on the thin and ever slick black ice.
Before me, as I cross the bridge to the east, the puffy clouds are colorful with rose and peach shades on the blue. To the south, the sky is gloomy, unrelieved, undetailed gray. To the north, radiant blue, and a band of pure white by the horizon, behind the skyscrapers.
The floods withdrew. The forests on the flood plain are surrounded by pure white and severely cracked slabs of ice, piled higgledly-piggledly.
In the ice puddle on the lawn, spikes of ice stand where the blades of grass had reached up.
Ice storm came, ice storm went with little damage -- and little ice. Yes, the branches are coated with it just about everywhere, but thinly enough that only when the light strikes it just right does it glitter like jewels. The apple tree before my window glitters not at all; I notice mostly the droplets hanging down as if it rained through the branch. Then, when it's really right it glitters like an opal, casting off sparks of brilliant color.
Cast iron chairs and tables sit on the balcony. Ice glazes the top and a fringe of tiny icicles circle around them. It makes it look extra gothic.
For a moment, it looks like a flock of dark birds leaping from the bare branches. Then I look with more than a glance, and the scattered raindrops on the window, on and about the the branches, are all dark above and bright below.
By the highway, the waterfall is full of foam, every inch of it as white as the snow that melted.
Snow on every branch, and dark birds flitting about, sharp in contrast.
Mist fills the landscapes, smooth and even, and pale gray. It even obscures the dark hilltop that manages to rise above the thickness. Such that it looks like a long, lumpy dark gray cloud floating in a gray sky.
The moon is rising over a cloudbank. Not a scrap of it visible, but the air is a halo of pale gold.
Rain turns to snow. The car is covered with rain that froze, a thick crust, and two doors simply will not open, for all the effort put into it. When I start the car, it complains that a door is ajar, and I worry that my efforts jammed the frozen doors that way. I get out to scrape. While standing on the thin and ever slick black ice.
Before me, as I cross the bridge to the east, the puffy clouds are colorful with rose and peach shades on the blue. To the south, the sky is gloomy, unrelieved, undetailed gray. To the north, radiant blue, and a band of pure white by the horizon, behind the skyscrapers.
The floods withdrew. The forests on the flood plain are surrounded by pure white and severely cracked slabs of ice, piled higgledly-piggledly.
In the ice puddle on the lawn, spikes of ice stand where the blades of grass had reached up.
Ice storm came, ice storm went with little damage -- and little ice. Yes, the branches are coated with it just about everywhere, but thinly enough that only when the light strikes it just right does it glitter like jewels. The apple tree before my window glitters not at all; I notice mostly the droplets hanging down as if it rained through the branch. Then, when it's really right it glitters like an opal, casting off sparks of brilliant color.
Cast iron chairs and tables sit on the balcony. Ice glazes the top and a fringe of tiny icicles circle around them. It makes it look extra gothic.
For a moment, it looks like a flock of dark birds leaping from the bare branches. Then I look with more than a glance, and the scattered raindrops on the window, on and about the the branches, are all dark above and bright below.
By the highway, the waterfall is full of foam, every inch of it as white as the snow that melted.