I call it November weather. Ah, but we have beautiful Aprils!

I took this photo yesterday evening in the park where I usually walk. Personally, I feel the winter sun is different from the autumn sun.

Let me explain myself better: the sun is obviously the same always. However, I sense that its sunlight rays and shadows on the street are not the same. Madrid is cloudier in January than in October, November, and December. For this reason, I hardly see the ochre-colored reflections in the windows or showcases.

I was lucky to see the sun setting yesterday because it is usually covered by the clouds...

Personally, I feel the winter sun is different from the autumn sun. — javi2541997

Of course it is. The same sun's rays hit different parts of the earth at different angles and intensities at every minute as the Earth orbits and rotates, while the atmospheric conditions also keep changing.

Of course it is. The same sun's rays hit different parts of the earth at different angles and intensities at every minute as the Earth orbits and rotates, while the atmospheric conditions also keep changing. — Vera Mont

Well, Vera, thank you for the scientific explanation. But I was actually referring to the artistic side. When I walk in the park (it is the path I use every day during the year, as well as public transport) I notice the sun is more vivid. It is orange instead of ochre or golden. I miss that when I am walking back home, my loyal shadow follows me. Although January is cold and cloudy, we tend to have sunny days (we never get into winter that deeply as Sweden or Canada), and then I notice the sun is shiner than before, exactly because of what you explained. I have to wait nine or ten months to see the ochre-coloured sun again...

I have to wait nine or ten months to see the ochre-coloured sun again... — javi2541997

I have only three before my favourite spring twilights begin. In between, we're likely to have opaque veils of snow blowing across the road, dark dismal days, freezing rain, slush, fog... everything we least desire. But there is beauty in northern winters, too: brilliant ice-crusted mornings and clear sunny days with bright blue sky over virginal snow-fields...

:love:

:D I had the same thought at first

The one unequivocally beautiful thing in the plains is the sky. I've enjoyed reading the imagery here because I've seen it many times over.

And here too -- another image I can connect to.

The one unequivocally beautiful thing in the plains is the sky. — Moliere

I don't know... I've spent some quality time in the prairies. True, that unbelievably big dome of sky can be enchanting whether it's high and clear or building up a mountain of clouds on the horizon. But I also like the oceans of grain and grass, and the whispering poplars and changing colours. Wherever you are, you can find something beautiful - even in big cities.

I have only three before my favourite spring twilights begin. — Vera Mont

So, it seems spring is your favorite season!

I see winter and autumn as perfect for poetry and literature. It is just my opinion, but its sense of nostalgia, cold, rainy days, etc. motivates me more than the endless sunny summer days…

So, it seems spring is your favorite season! — javi2541997

No, I like early summer best. June, when the landscape is as green as it can possibly get, flowers bloom in profusion, my tomatoes and peppers are growing nicely, the cucumbers haven't got powdery mildew yet, the birds are teaching their fledglings to fly and we can have breakfast on the deck.
But for sheer, heartbreaking beauty, there is nothing like an April sunset. ...
except maybe that Andalusian filly I watched playing in a meadow one late afternoon. My word, that was one gorgeous horse: every line, every toss of the mane, every step was a poem.

February 12th.

This photo was taken from the balcony of my house after a heavy rain. The clouds seem to be angry, outrageous, violent. Although the ochre colored sunlight does his job and evokes a sense of nostalgia, it lasted just an hour, while the rain fell incessantly.

It reminds me of a poem by the Swedish poet Harry Martinson:

Have you seen a tramp collier come out of a hurricane—
with broken booms, gunwales shot to pieces,
crumpled, gasping, come to grief—
and her captain gone all hoarse?
Snorting, she puts in at the sunlit wharf,
exhausted, licking her wounds
while the steam thins in her boilers. Harry Martinson. Poetry.

November 2.

Fifty nine days remain until
the end of the year.
The sun is set on the horizon
and I remember Valencia.
Sweeter grapes than the ones
of my kitchen I can’t imagine of.
I got them from a poet from Paiporta.
He said—I now feel nostalgia for him—
But he said grapes like these are only
grown near Albufera.
I put my coat on
because it is cold outside.
I start to walk until I arrive at the sunset,
remembering Valencia and
the poet from Paiporta.