A starry firmament, vast and indifferent, stretches over the Carpathian crags this night, yet its clarity is but a veil for the creeping mountain mist that coils about the lower valleys like a restles…
The quicksilver column in my Torricellian tube, that faithful glassy oracle, rests at 29.95 inches—motionless as the carved griffins on the parapet. No trembling, no sudden leap or fall; the barometer…
The morning air, though touched by the sun's pale gold, carries a chill that seems to seep from the very bones of the mountains. A light mist, like the ghost of a forgotten river, clings to the lower …
A crystalline silence, as of a frozen cathedral, has settled upon the high crags; the sky, unburdened by cloud (barely six percent veiled), is a vast, black sapphire set with the cold, indifferent fir…
The quicksilver within its glass prison has sunk to 29.72 inches, a profound and disquieting fall that sets the teeth of this observer on edge. The brass-bound dial, with its delicate needle, trembles…
The impenetrable river fog that so often coils through Kneeling Glen has this day withdrawn to a mere wisp, a silver thread stitching the black pines to the limestone crags. At sixteen of the clock, t…