Our current house, "Foggygates", is sited so that we get nice views at both ends of the day. This is the view looking east- sunrise is often spectacularly-hued, and this is also where the fog comes from when it comes up from the river and rolls across the fields. This is that view after a snowstorm last year.
The silent winter fog steals in,
River’s breath, the color of gin;
Stealing through the iron branches;
Icy water drip drip drip.
The barn was there,
And now it’s gone;
Smothered, swallowed, by the gauze.
Silvery, silken puffs just linger;
with ice-cold fingers.
Now up above
The sun cracks through,
Shooting golden, molten hues
Cotton ghosts dissolve and flee,
Barn and tree and I are free
To see the last cold fingers die.
the first hawks fly.
At the other end of the day, the sunsets are almost always worth watching-