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December 2. Four centimetres of snow fell during the night, but the morning dawns crisp and clear. Shy of the cold, I intend to take a short walk, but beauty keeps drawing me further. For most of my adult life I resented winter, but during the past several years I determined not to let it keep me indoors. I need sunlight to ward off the blues. Many people love the first snowfall but then wish winter would end. Unexpectedly, I have become content to let the season run its course. I desire to know the river and woods in all their moods. To dismiss winter would be like ignoring part of a loved one's character, and that would not be genuine love. Seeing this morning's loveliness I am more than content; I am happy. Now has come the season when strange, silent ice formations drift downstream. Their appearance changes according to the weather. Today they are transparent and fragile. Chickadees break the silence with spirited voices.
December 4. Today is milder, with patches of melt water sitting on the street. It would feel like spring but long shadows at midday—and the sun not halfway up the sky—betray December. Along the hard-packed trail, snow talks softly back to trudging boots. Some goldfinches fly burbling over a distant row of trees. A single chickadee speaks. Otherwise the air is still. In the quilted meadow, I take a clean white mouthful. Snow has a refreshing, mineral taste. An idle current has drawn a dark channel down the middle of the river between frigid shoulders. Where fallen branches descend into the steam, delicate sheets of ice cling to them, above and parallel to the water's surface, marking how the level has fallen since morning. The pond is still, its reflections unblemished. Glaring ice rests over the shallows.
December 10. It is mild. Most of the snow had disappeared. The squirrels take it as a holiday. Practically every house boasts one, twitching its tail on the front lawn or veranda. The regular flock of house sparrows in Florence Lane erupts from its feast of corn, their wings cracking
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