A Book of the Seasons: January 6.

January 6.

Through thin ice I see
my face in bubbles against
its undersurface.
January 6, 1853

High wind and howling
and driving snowstorm all night,
now much drifted.
January 6, 1856

Neither man, woman,

nor child, dog nor cat nor fowl,

has stirred out to-day. 

January 6, 1856

Balled and frozen slush

thick and solid on my boots --

thawed off by the fire.
January 6, 1857

The stones are happy,
Concord River is happy,
I am happy too.
January 6, 1857

  

Chipper tree sparrows

flitting restlessly about

jerking their long tails.

January 6, 1857

They are the product

of enthusiasm or

of an ecstasy.

Each snowflake and

dewdrop is finished with the 

Artist's utmost skill.

January 6, 1858

January 6 , 2014

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 © 2009-2020