Only a week and two days have passed since the shortest day of the year. Already, I notice the increasing minutes of daylight. In the morning before I leave for work, the light is already closer to day’s light than to night’s darkness. In the evenings, the sunset is officially just 4 minutes later than it was at Solstice, but the day’s light lingers to almost 5:30 p.m.
Somehow, that tiny amount seems like a small victory, the kind of relief that brings a contented sigh. "You’ve made it, again," are the unspoken words that seem to hang in the air. It hardly seems to matter that more winter lies ahead than is behind. It hardly seems to matter that winter’s hold will likely not ease much for another two months. Today it matters only that it’s no longer dark when I leave the house and dark when I return in the evening.
My photo today is another one from the Christmas Eve ice storm. My solar lights hang from the clothes line, but all you can really see is ice, ice and more ice.