Monday, February 3, 2020

A Book of the Seasons: FEBRUARY


“The year is but a succession of days,
and I see that I could assign some office to each day
which, summed up, would be the history of the year.”
Henry Thoreau, August 24, 1852


Though the days are much longer,
the cold sets in stronger than ever.
rivers and meadows are frozen.
It is midwinter.
It is easier to get about the country than at any other season.
February 9, 1851




Now the river is
one level white blanket of 
snow quite to each shore.
February 1, 1855











The scream of the jay
wholly without sentiment
a true winter sound.
February 2, 1854











The skater sails midst
a moving world of snow-steam,
as high as his knees.
February 3, 1855











Partridges feed on 
the sumach berries, making
 fresh tracks every snow. 
February 4, 1856











Though on the back track,
I draw nearer to the fox.
My thoughts grow foxy.

A mistiness makes
the woods look denser, darker
and more primitive.

Yellowish tufts of
moss in the young woods look like
sunlight on the ground.
February 7, 1858











My vaporous life
now radiant as frost in
a winter morning.
February 8, 1857











Though the days are much
longer now the cold sets in 
stronger than ever.
February 9, 1851











Go across Walden,
bright sunlight on pure white snow,
my shadow is blue.
February 10, 1855











February 11.
Minus ten degrees,
the blue atmosphere tinges
the distant pine woods.
February 11, 1855











The scream of a jay.
Cold hard tense frozen music
 like the winter sky.
February 12 , 1854











They come with the storm,
the falling and driving snow,
a flock of snowbirds.
February 13, 1853











We are made to love
river and meadow, as wind
to ripple water.

The steady rushing
musical sound of rain soaks
into my spirit.
February 15, 1855











Inhale clear bright air
this cold windy afternoon,
the sky undimmed blue.
February 16, 1852











First springlike note heard
at the stone bridge from the hill
in the misty air.
February 17, 1855











A cloud in the west
changes the whole character
of the afternoon. 
February 18, 1860











I tend to walk where
I cannot walk in summer.
Swamps, river and ponds.
February 19, 1854











The northerly wind
roaring in the woods to-day
reminds me of March.
February 20, 1855











Chickadee passes
the news through all the forest,
spring is approaching.
February 21, 1855











Raw westerly wind 
but deliciously warm now
in sheltered places.
February 22, 1855











Fine snow drives along
like steam curling from a roof.
i see the drifts form.
February 23, 1854











Though snow covers ground
the quality of the air
reminds me of spring.
February 24, 1852













First silvery sheen,
 the needles of the white pine
waving in the wind.
February 25, 1860











Morning snow turns to
fine freezing rain with a glaze
changing to pure rain.
February 26, 1854











Bright and immortal,
the unfettered stream sparkles 
in the clear cool air.
February 27, 1852











The westering sun
reflected from their edges
makes them shine finely.
February 28, 1855











From Pine Hill the snow-
crust shines in the sun as far
as the eye can reach.


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A Book of Seasons,  by Henry Thoreau, February
A Book of 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

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