High Sun

Even though yesterday's storm dumped another eight inches of snow on us, making the snowbanks on the sides of the roads so high that we can't see around them at stop-signs, the midday sun is breaking winter's back.  There's a steady dripping or cracking sound all around our house, as icicles melt and crash to the deck and front and back door-stoops.  The sun is straight over the house now at midday, beaming down on the roof snow till it slides slowly down the skylights and glass roof of our sunroom, dropping with a whump to the foundation of the house.  The resulting four-foot high snowbanks surrounding the sunroom have protected it from the below-zero winter nights, keeping our plants thriving.  The other night when it was about five below, my husband and I remembered that we'd forgotten to bring the auxilliary heater up from the basement to plug in in the sunroom, as we've had to do every November or December since we've lived here.  This year it hasn't been necessary, and we're sure it's because of those four-foot banks of snow tight up against the foundation all around. 

    And because the sun's so high, the dark blue shadows of trees have shortened across the meadow, showing more clean white stretches of sunlit snow lightening the landscape.  This makes it feel almost warm as we strike out across our back meadow on cross-country skis, wearing sunscreen to keep the sun coming off the snow from burning our faces.   

    The sun's stretching the days dramatically now.  When we head out on our walks at 5:30 am, we only have to have the flashlight on for the first twenty minutes.  After that, the road lightens to a beautiful medium-blue facing west, violet to the east.  And yesterday, dusk didn't come till after 5:30. 

     Our dog Cody loves to lie on the highest snowbank surrounding our house, right off the kitchen.  He looks down the driveway to the road, surveying his domain.  I watch him out the window as I do the dishes; his eyes close against the warm sun, and his head droops as he struggles to stay awake.  Chickadees dart back and forth over his head from lilac bush to bird-feeder, calling their two-noted spring song.   

    More snow is forecast for the coming week, but winter is on the wane.      

Comments

[joared]

Lovely description, I feel as though I'm there when I read your words. I remember walking a half-mile in deep snow with snow drifts higher than my head, then standing by the road waiting for my hour ride on the bus to get to school -- temperatures below zero. Now, I enjoy the view of the snow-covered mountains north from my kitchen window and front yard -- enough for me presently. I did want snow flurries for the holidays with my daughter back east, but my wish was not granted.

[Tabor]

I especially love the image of breaking winter's back!!

[Annie in Austin]

Hi ML,
The sunroom almost sounds like the interior of an igloo in a movie. It's good to hear you're not only surviving winter but thriving in it.

Annie at the Transplantable Rose

[Terri]

It does "sound" nice, but as a former New Englander I'm afraid I couldn't go back to those winters. Yup, I've become a whimp....I admit it.
I bet with the change in time now, you're using that flashlight in the morning again. GOD, it doesn't get light here till after 7:00 in the morning now! But I do love the fact it's now 7:30 p.m. and the sun is just now going down very slowly.