late winter snow

just as roads and pathways were finally clear of snow and ice, just as i changed from heavy gloves to leather dress ones, just as i was able to wear shoes outside instead of boots, this happens overnight. it's another nor'easter for this area, on top of one just a few days back. but again with this storm, we got lucky...lots and lots of snow, but it's warm inside, there's power, and there's no need to complain. forecasts of snow this time of year, when everyone is so ready for spring green and warmth, are hard to deal with. but it's always so magical when the snow actually does arrive. so i'll make another cup of tea, sit at my window and work, and continue to be distracted by the swirling beauty of fat flakes and the quiet elegance of a march snow. 

a spring visit

standing at the open window, washing morning coffee cups and cereal bowls, i am thinking of my mother and how she loved spring. new growth in her garden, geese returning to the river, sitting outside - she was always glad to see winter over. perhaps i get that from her. 

from the corner of my eye, i see something drop like a stone from a high branch of the lilac tree outside. too fast and straight to be a leaf, i think, as i step to the door to investigate. and there she is, right outside my back door.

i have heard cardinals this spring and saw a male from a distance a few weeks back, but never the elusive female. there's no seed out there because i haven't fed winter birds - or winter mice - in years. and there was no male in sight, watching his mate from a high maple or hemlock branch. 

she visits for a long while, then flies back up into the lilac, and finally, off into the deep woods. i took about twenty shots with my telephoto lens, all through a winter-dirty window pane, so as not to disturb and to keep her around as long as i possibly could. 

light times two

in the foreground, one of my window candles, this year battery-operated ones on a timer set in early december to coordinate with dusk. in the background, a large hill, probably a mile or so away, brightly lit by the rays of the sinking sun. i should have reset the timers weeks ago, but every evening this sight is a joyous reminder that the days really are getting longer and longer.

more like it

so here finally is the winter we've all been waiting for, some for longer than others. it's cold, a monday, and nothing of any consequence is happening. but while washing dishes at the sink, i was pleased to spot, amidst all the new white, the vibrant rose of the not-so-little-girl's birdhouse, its top permanently removed by a persistent squirrel. and i was delighted when a random glob of suds leapt up onto the backsplash and formed itself into this tiny, soapy heart.

january. not much to write home about. 

what's this?

this tree's been in my backyard for half my life, yet i have never seen it like this. it's all leafed out, but it has what i can only imagine to be tree "flowers" hanging from the branches. a strange and unusual sight out the back window, that i mostly just want to document here.

night, late

after lying in bed sleepless, a weight on my mind and in my heart, i rise to seek solace in the stars and the beauty of the brilliant night. out the window, orion shines through the trees, his familiar belt the only order i can find at this troubling hour.

blizzard

mid-afternoon and i'm still not sure if 'they' are right about this storm. certainly, more snow than we've seen this winter, but not a lot by new england standards. it's quiet out on the road - the plow has been back and forth once and some daring young people walked by a few hours ago, snowboards atop their heads. it's been snowing most of the day but winds are just now beginning to pick up and, as i write this, snow has begun to fly horizontally. perhaps this is the blizzard...

a good time for tea, and then a long winter's nap.

morning, uneventful

this frosty morning, shot from the dark kitchen to the bleak outside - through the uplifting images of a festooned candle, a globe of milkweed fluff, and a gingerbreadman cutter, still standing after his counterparts have all been packed away.

robins in winter

just ahead of the grey sky and the predicted snow flurries, robins come to the holly. it seems they are early this year, and there are dozens of them, all swooping in together, then scattering off to the maple, only to return for more berries. at this rate, they'll be none left for them for the rest of the winter. perhaps they know something that i don't.

hawk

earlier this month, there was a hawk hanging around the fringes of the woods. at first, i was excited and thought he was just passing through. but he stayed. sometimes i could see him but always, always, i could hear him. all day long. i thought he would drive me crazy with his constant shrill sounds. and then one day, it was too quiet, too still, and he was gone. and i actually missed him, worried about him a little bit. he probably just moved on to someone who appreciated him as much as i should have.

spring song

early this morning, with windows open without benefit of screen, i heard him before i saw him. a cheery song from the top of the birch tree at the edge of the woods. he was there for the longest time, chirping his greeting to the new day and the new season. and each time he flew to the next highest branch, tiny pollen clouds poofed from each catkin.

robin in winter

this little creature has been around my windows for weeks, eating the crabapples and the holly berries in the yard (and in the window boxes and door baskets!). but how can a robin be this fat in the dead of winter? or is he just all feathers and fluff?

january thaw

after so much ice and rain, finally...a perfect winter morning. sunshine, blue sky, temperatures pushing 40°F. icicles drip. puddles expand. a window by my desk is wide open for a few minutes only. and i am working as fast as i can so i can get out and enjoy the day, this hiatus in our cold and snowy weather.

dark, drizzly

it sure has been a long time since i've had to work on a sunday afternoon. i am selfishly thankful it's at least a rainy one. what i'd rather be doing on such a dreary november day: taking a nap, watching a movie, reading by the woodstove, making soup...
but i rationalize it's as good day as any to be sitting at the computer trying to organize my thoughts and write cohesively. so i turn on my mantle lights, put on my quiet playlist, make a cup of tea, and get back to work.

perennials

there's my perennial garden, taken out the window during a rain storm as i experimented with settings on my new camera. note the milkweed standing tall and proud and the dead lupine pods on brittle brown stems! still, this is about as good as this garden gets. in a few weeks, most of the flowers will be dead on their stems (or composted centerpieces) with only the autumn joy sedum for color and perhaps the rosy morning glories climbing that trellis, should they have enough time to bloom. every year i buy cosmos seed for annual color. and every year i never get around to planting them. and i am always so sorry come august.

alliteration

out my window, in my garden, left-leaning lupines. i thought that sounded hysterical, all those l sounds, and wanted to capture the sight to add to the blog or to instagram. it was even more funny, though, when i downloaded the picture file and realized i took the shot from the wrong side!

no birds, no mice

this winter, in an effort to keep down the mouse population inside this old house, i have not been feeding the birds from the lilac tree outside. rodent-wise, my plan is working (i think). but i sure do miss seeing winter birds right outside my door. after years of being entertained by nuthatches, woodpeckers, and blue jays, i have seen nary a chickadee, all winter long.

resting place

dragonflies have been sitting at the tip of the garden trellis all morning for the second saturday in a row. i watch them from my desk, wings glistening in the sun, resting for what seems too long periods of time. not sure what the appeal is to that location, other than a bug's eye view of the lupine, the peonies, the evening primrose, and the expanse of emerald grass beyond.

here we go again

the rising sun, through the window, through the screen, through the trees. i've been around this thing so many times now it's a bit staggering.

inside-out

the view out the window this showery april morning. this rain is much needed, yet inconvenient. it will force me to find ways to stay content inside, which is unplanned - but not difficult to do.