A Book of the Seasons: January 9.

January 9. 

As I climb the Cliff
I pause in the sun and sit
on a rock dreaming.

I sit dreaming of
summery hours -- times tinged
with eternity.

The colors in the
reflection differ from those
in the sunset sky.
January 9, 1853

Chickadees flitting

close to me and one utters 

its spring note – phe-be, 

 January 9, 1858

Sometimes a lost man 

will not have sense enough to 

trace back his own tracks 

 January 9, 1855

The river reflects
colors different from those
in the sunset sky.
January 9, 1853 

The Winter is the

Sabbath of the year -- days are

cold but clear and bright.

January 9, 1859

Clear cold afternoon --
see to our surprise a star
about half past three.
January 9, 1854

The river reflects
different colors from those
in the sunset sky.
January 9, 1853 

Perfect Winter days

cold but clear and bright are the 

sabbath of the year.
January 9, 1859

Perfect winter days
cold but clear and bright. Winter.
Sabbath of the year. 
January 9, 1859

To look over pines

so rich and distinct into

the soft western sky.

January 9, 1859

January 9, 2021

C. says the winter is the sabbath of the year. The perfect Winter days are cold, but clear and bright. January 9, 1859

Looking for rainbow-tinted clouds, small whiffs of vapor which form and disperse, this clear, cold afternoon, we see to our surprise a star, about half past three or earlier, a mere round white dot. Is the winter then such a twilight? This is about an hour and a half before sunset. January 9, 1854

As I climb the Cliff, I pause in the sun and sit on a dry rock, dreaming. I think of those summery hours when time is tinged with eternity. January 9, 1853 

Some chickadees come flitting close to me, and one utters its spring note, phe-be, for which I feel under obligations to him. January 9, 1858

I see to-day the reflected sunset sky in the river, but the colors in the reflection are different from those in the sky.  January 9, 1853 

The sun has been set some minutes, and as I stand on the pond looking westward toward the twilight sky, a soft, satiny light is reflected from the ice in flakes here and there, like the light from the under side of a bird’s wing. It is worth the while to stand here at this hour and look into the soft western sky, over the pines whose outlines are so rich and distinct against the clear sky. I am inclined to measure the angle at which pine bough meets the stem. That soft, still, cream-colored sky seems the scene, the stage or field, for some rare drama to be acted on. January 9, 1859

(Sometimes a lost man will be so beside himself that he will not have sense enough to trace back his own tracks in the snow.) January 9, 1855

(Sometimes a lost man will be so beside himself that he will not have sense enough to trace back his own tracks in the snow.) January 9, 1855

After the January thaw our thoughts cease to refer to autumn and we look forward to spring.  January 9, 1860

To Beck Stow’s . . . I wade through the swamp, where the snow lies light eighteen inches deep on a level, a few leaves of andromedas, etc., peeping out. (I am a-birds’-nesting.) The mice have been out and run over it.  January 9, 1856 

I see one large bush of winter-berries still quite showy, though somewhat discolored by the cold. January 9, 1856 

The rabbits have run in paths about the swamp. Go now anywhere in the swamp and fear no water. January 9, 1856 

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How pretty the evergreen radical shoots of the St. John’s-wort now exposed, partly red or lake, various species of it.. . .A little wreath of green and red lying along on the muddy ground amid the melting snows. January 9, 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 © 2009-2019