December 9

A crunchy day, mist hanging thick over the ice and snow. The winter apples, still on the trees, have a sheen of freeze on them, like glass peaches, or Christmas ornaments.

 Light wind tries to stir

the beech branches. The trees and

I—all stiff with cold.

December 1

Sparkly morning. An inch of fresh overnight powder on top of the crunchy base of days gone by. The weather has cleared out and little chips of sun wink everywhere. The birch trees are white and black against the clean blue sky. Then, a familiar sound…but surely not? Yes! Two Vs of geese, traveling high and fast above the hill, their white underwings blinking on and off, the whole line twinkling along. Ninety-nine Canadas and one snow, hauling hard to the south, diamond necklace of the air.

Belated snow goose,

tardy pearl—your practical

cousins left long since.

November 26

The lake—all summer a demure gray, nearly invisible among the trees—now jumps out white in the new snow, recently frozen and blaring its pure trumpet self, like a hay field suddenly inserted into the woods. The ancestral goose clans are far away now, eating Chesapeake snails for Thanksgiving.

Climbing hill in snow,

more flakes tapping on my hat—

frozen ocean breath.

November 24

Bitter cold. Stiff wind. Nose bleed. The dogs choose the shorter trail. Hummingbird nest in an umbra of twigs. Paperwasp nest in a cloud of berry canes. Both empty. In the snow, a drop of blood. In the distance, suspended above the brown fluff of goldenrod, a nebula of winterberry, cheerful and bright.

Fill your lungs with clean,

cold air—grateful for the fire

burning back at home.

November 18

Locking up the barn after dark. The wind is kicking up—the cold coming back after a few days of sweet, mild sunshine. In the darkness, the ducks stir uneasily in their pen. A sky full of stars, except for one cloud in the east, black as the earth below, its top outlined orange by the hidden moon.

Inside the barn, hens

sleep in the dark. Inside them,

warm eggs wait their chance.

November 2

The foliage has faded away, leaving the brown and black world of trunks and stems under a gray sky. Suddenly some yellow late-bloomer illuminates in fulsome gold the margin between orchard and woods--as quick, an orange reply in the shrubs at the foot of the slope. The cold is coming tomorrow: whatever you’ve got to say, say it now.

Sudden flame of rust

in gray woods. What’s that bird in

the apple? Towhee!

October 29

A good time of year to like brown: we are all about texture now. Poofy seed pods of goldenrod, scruffy tree trunks, distant vaguely twiggy hillsides, nearly invisible deer. The sunrises are becoming oranger, though, and broad, behind the entire range of mountains to the east. The sun rises sometimes on fields made white with sparkling crystals, like very temporary snow.

Heavy frost—dogs leave

melted butt prints on lawn. The

paws that refreshes!