It's sunny and cold - about 20 degrees. With high winds from the north, the windchill dips to 0 and below. This is a vintage January day, without which winter would not be winter. In my mind, January has to feature at least some frozen gales that seem to blow in from the nether reaches of northern Canada. They rattle the tree branches and whoosh around the corner of the house. If you're in Manhattan, you face the arctic blasts full-on, as the wind races itself through the high-rise canyons. Outside of Boston, a dusting of light, dry snow fell as the cold arrived yesterday. This morning, delicate treadmarks criss-crossed the snow in the driveway, as if made by miniature one-treaded tanks. The gales made them. As they flew around the side of the garage, they had rolled pinecones from our big white pines around on the driveway. I'm astounded; in my many years of New England winters, I've never seen this before.
No comments:
Post a Comment