Now while the snow is yet falling

January 26. 

This morning it snows again,—a fine dry snow with no wind to speak of, giving a wintry aspect to the landscape.   

I see where a partridge has waddled through the snow still falling, making a continuous track. I look in the direction to which it points, and see the bird just skimming over the bushes fifteen rods off.

What changes in the aspect of the earth! one day russet hills, and muddy ice, and yellow and greenish pools in the fields; the next all painted white, the fields and woods and roofs laid on thick. 

The wintriest scene, —which perhaps can only be seen in perfection while the snow is yet falling, before wind and thaw begin.

H. D. Thoreau, Journal, January 26, 1855

A Book of the Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau

 "A book, each page written in its own season,

out-of-doors, in its own locality."

 ~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx ©  2009-2024

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