A Book of the Seasons: January 1.

January 1.

Lichen-covered rock

almost warm as in summer –

naked in moonlight,

January 1, 1852

I return at last
in a rain and am coated
with glaze like the fields. 

January 1, 1853

Snow is like a mold

showing the form of the wind –

where the wind has been.

January 1, 1854 

Pink light on the snow.

The shadow of the bridges

dark indigo blue.

January 1, 1855

Looking closely as

the thin and fragile frostwork

melts under my breath.

January 1, 1856

Here two fishermen

know not why they have no bites

this clear winter day.

January 1, 1856

January 1, 2017

Moon little more than half full. Not a cloud in the sky. The stars dazzlingly bright. It is a remarkably warm night for the season, the ground almost entirely bare . . . Perhaps the only thing that spoke to me on this walk was the bare, lichen-covered gray rock at the Cliff, in the moonlight, naked and almost warm as in summer. January 1, 1852

This morning we have something between ice and frost on the trees, etc. The whole earth . . . is encased in ice . . . I return at last in a rain, and am coated with a glaze, like the fields. January 1, 1853

This morning it is snowing again fast, and about six inches has already fallen by 10 a. m., of a moist and heavy snow. It is about six inches in all this day . . . The snow-drift does not lie close about the pump, but is a foot off, forming a circular bowl, showing that there was an eddy about it. It shows where the wind has been, the form of the wind  January 1, 1854

We see the pink light on the snow within a rod of us. The shadow of the bridges on the snow is a dark indigo blue. January 1, 1855

On the ice at Walden are very beautiful great leaf crystals in great profusion . . . They are, on a close examination, surprisingly perfect leaves, like ferns . . .They are so thin and fragile that they melt under your breath while looking closely at them. January 1, 1856

Here are two fishermen, and one has preceded them. They have not had a bite, and know not why. It has been a clear winter day. January 1, 1856

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 © 2009-2017