2ND Week of February: Journal

Sunny days and warm afternoons have resulted in letting the wood fire die down and opening the door into the sun room. 

Shelby-cat has been in trouble for flinging soil out of the large pot I used to pot up several of last year's amaryllis bulbs. I have two friends who successfully encourage repeat flowering of the bulbs, but thus far I've had no success. I have made a fence of plastic spoons stuck into the dirt around the bulbs--a rather frail barrier but the best I can contrive.

Shelby was roundly scolded for her cultivating efforts. Apparently taking this to heart she was inspired to wedge herself amongst the rosemarys on the long table. I didn't know she was there until she moved slightly as I watered the plants.

Jim felled a dead oak on the rim of the north ravine not far below the house and has been working it up.

Robert and Shelby, who normally prowl about in that area have been put off by the noise of chainsaw, tractors and wood splitter and have spent hours in the house while this disruptive project continues. 

A fiery sunset on Wednesday evening.

The setting sun cast a glow to the east, outlining the boundary trees against a billow of pale clouds.

The sunset colors change even in the time it takes to snatch my camera from my desk and go outside.

The half moon rises early in the east, hovering over the south ravine, seeming to float behind the bare trees. Going out after first dark to call Nellie-cat I observed the stars and noted the strange rim of light along the western horizon. While the rest of the sky had become inky blue-black, there were still layers of faint color to be seen in the west as though light shone through a veil--a pale rim of gold-touched azure fading into indigo.

Today [Friday] has been strange weather-wise; it was 54 F late in the morning with sun. As the afternoon wore on the temperature rose to 66 F although the sun was capriciously skidding behind banks of cloud. The wind was fierce, roaring through swaying tree tops, yet one could walk along the lane and feel only an intermittent  gust that swept down to send dry leaves skirling across the sodden garden to catch in the tangled pale grass of the meadow. 

Walking to and from the mailbox I felt buffeted, pushed sideways by the force of the wind. 

Stepping outside just now [9: 25 p.m.] I looked up at the sky. No stars are visible and shreds of cloud sail across the face of the moon calling to mind the 'ghostly galleon' of Alfred Noyes poem. 

I'm calling it an early night--not planning to read for hours in bed.

Perhaps the wind will sing me to sleep.