A very mild overnight snowfall. I set off for a walk after breakfast (soyaburgers - I'm beginning to dislike them). Outside, the snow was neither deep nor crisp nor even, warmed by the sun and blown across fields by a strong northerly wind. At the end of ul. Trombity, I gingerly crept down to the edge of the frozen reed beds - I could hear the ice creaking - and in went my right foot (that black patch on the right). Fortunately only up to my ankle, so I came away with dry feet. I wonder how many days of frost are needed to solidify standing water so as one can walk on it - I read once that the Vistula needs nine days at -9C for it to be safe to walk across.
The sun shone beautifully, the daytime high today was -3C. Nice winter's day - shame there wasn't more snow.
Above: the north end of ul. Trombity - this could be Minnesota.
I turned left onto the unmade footpath that's ul. Kórnicka, leading to the tracks. This is my usual circuit for a weekend stroll, length around four kilometres. On the other side of the railway line is a small copse of self-sown silver birches, which looked utterly resplendent, the vertical white against the deep blue of the sky (enhanced, I must say, by a circular polarising filter).
A very mild overnight snowfall. I set off for a walk after breakfast (soyaburgers - I'm beginning to dislike them). Outside, the snow was neither deep nor crisp nor even, warmed by the sun and blown across fields by a strong northerly wind. At the end of ul. Trombity, I gingerly crept down to the edge of the frozen reed beds - I could hear the ice creaking - and in went my right foot (that black patch on the right). Fortunately only up to my ankle, so I came away with dry feet. I wonder how many days of frost are needed to solidify standing water so as one can walk on it - I read once that the Vistula needs nine days at -9C for it to be safe to walk across.
The sun shone beautifully, the daytime high today was -3C. Nice winter's day - shame there wasn't more snow. Above: the north end of ul. Trombity - this could be Minnesota.
I turned left onto the unmade footpath that's ul. Kórnicka, leading to the tracks. This is my usual circuit for a weekend stroll, length around four kilometres. On the other side of the railway line is a small copse of self-sown silver birches, which looked utterly resplendent, the vertical white against the deep blue of the sky (enhanced, I must say, by a circular polarising filter).
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Our disquieted Isle of Albion has too been wreathed and festooned in the splendours of the Frost Gods! As the Sun rises with its dramatic fervour and intensity, so do the Frost Gods lay out their bounty across our fields and hedgerows and our streets and bye-ways. I exult in the frost pockets and the frost hollows, where even at the height of the Sun, the ground remains glistered with hard frost and upon the air, my breath sings patterns upon the void. Our sky over Albion is powder-blue and at night our skies are deep and clear like lunar pools. Frost in its dominion transforms all. We await its melt with unease and disdain and a diurnal sense of loss.
Cernus Brodkin
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