morning sun, suffused by cloud,
glowing at the brink of the hill,
casts a shaft of yellow light
on the pale trunk of
the bare sycamore
birds in the branches above
are singing, too
Click on the photo to see a larger version.
This isn't the sycamore; it's an ash. By the time I got back outside with my camera, the light had shifted and much of the snow melted.