Damp Night

Winter takes the form of a cold and misty fog which turns the dark masses of trees vague and makes of distance a mystery. Yet, it holds close to earth, so that the marbled sky of drifting clouds remains visible. It gathers and condenses on the pines, from which the drops fall to fill night with a slow and sombre drumming. Every blade of grass is wet, and would sparkle, were any beam of light of reach it. But the darkness is dense, and only the diffuse, pale glow descending from the clouds illuminates the scene. The hours pass without change, until it seems as though they have not passed at all, but have ceased to be, and all there is of the world is this dim night of fog like a cold sweat, and the constant weeping of the pines.

Good Afternoon

One of my favorite smells is that of sweet potatoes beginning to bake. Later, when they begin to drip and the drippings begin to burn, the smell changes, growing dark and dense, but the first scent they emit is fresh, simple, and direct, seeming more like some artless flower than a food. As a child, I was always a bit disappointed by sweet potatoes because they never tasted as good as they smelled. They are good, but never quite as flavorful as fragrant. There are sweet potatoes in the oven right now, and the house is filling with that spacious aroma which conjures for me visions of open fields filled with wildflowers and new grass. I've never smelled a wildflower with a scent like a baking sweet potato, but I have always imagined them existing, somewhere.

The day is suited to that scent. Last night's fog has risen to join the diaphanous clouds which turn afternoon's light to a soft glow. Without edges, the clouds blend into hazy patches of blue sky, and muted sunlight falls to warm the evergreen plants and the pines, whose shadows are as soft as the clouds. The surprising abundance of birds who brave the cold air fill day with sharp winter songs, and I see them flicker past my window on fluttering wings as they descend to peck at the lawn or rise to alight on the thin, bare mulberry twigs. I have great hopes for a sunset as rich and bright as the flesh of the sweet potatoes I will soon be opening.