March 28

This morning the lake is a series of steel gray, sparkling ripples. The geese are gone or better yet have yet to arrive for their morning rounds. Only the pair of mallard ducks hang out on the shore. I saw a fat bright red cardinal in the French pussy willow tree. His call fills the strangely empty air. It's cold. The wind blows strong and hard, stirring up more ripples. Bare tree branches shake and clank. The sky is pure white with a few puffy grey clouds and the sun is a lemon yellow streaming weakly through. The weather man is calling for rain and snow starting this afternoon. Perhaps the geese will stay away, hunkered down in their fields where the ground is warm.

February 18-the view

Today the view from my window grows more interesting. The lake is quick silver. Water patches rest in puddles on the top, but the lake itself is still frozen. How do I know this? Coyote just trotted by on top of the water. I wonder if he is hoping to snag a lazy goose. Yes, the geese are back, honking and standing one legged on the ice, drinking from the puddles. The banks of the lake are yellow/brown grass with patches of white snow where the shadows block the sun. The willow tree in the far distance stands out a bright tan while the other trees are stark brown lines and limbs.

Water drips in slow fat plops from everything as it rained only a few moments ago. Now, that rain is occasional fat white flakes of snow floating from the sky. As if it can't make up it's mind whether it is winter or spring.

No longer the quiet of mid winter, a cardinal sings...shoe,shoe,shoe, shoe.... geese honk.

I see a small sparrow at the tip of the Ash tree, a fat rounded silhouette in all the long lines of branches. The cardinal flits by a flash of red. The geese gather noisily for their morning coffee break, black vees in a silver white clouded sky.

Life returns Spring can't be far behind.

February 11-the view

Thick fog rolls in wisps across the semi-frozen lake. The lake itself liquid silver where rain and snow run-off form puddles and rivets across the ice. Patches of snow sit stark white on banks of green brown grass. The trees themselves browns and blacks at once hidden and revealed by mist. Sublimating snow rolls off the banks and over the lake like a fog machine gone wild. All is quiet. The birds have yet to return somehow knowing that this thaw, this fog, will turn to ice and bitter cold by the evening. But for now-colors of brown and green sit boldly among the blacks and silvers hinting at the season to come.