Wednesday, December 6, 2023

Yesterday's ice storm today.

(Yesterday it froze as it fell on my umbrella
 converting the cotton cloth into a thick stiff glazed sort of oilcloth 
so that it was impossible to shut it.)

9 A.M.

Out to see the glaze 
now half fallen    melting off --
the dripping trees and

falling ice wets you
like rain in the woods. It is
a lively sound busy

tinkling incessant
brattling and from time to time
a rushing crashing

falling ice of trees
suddenly erecting when
relieved of their loads. 

Look at this dripping
tree between you and the sun
you may see here there

one or another
rainbow color -- a small
brilliant point of light. 

Henry Thoreau
December 6, 1858


December 6. See A Book of the Seasons by Henry Thoreau, December 6

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 © 2009-2023

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