Another Morning in Paradise

26 November 2024: Hurricane Hill (1,100 feet), White River Junction, Vermont

6:47 a.m. (eleven minutes before sunrise). Twenty-five degrees, wind east-southeast two miles per hour, gusting to five. Ominous cloud ceiling and broken river fog—islets low, elliptical, and ostensibly stationary. Traces of snow on the shoulder of Mount Moosilaukee, the white-capped summit obscured by clouds. Then, across the muddled sky, an unexpected and momentary flowering: a band of pale lilac above the New Hampshire ridgeline; closer to home, a dense Crayola rose above Hurricane Hill, extending the north in dots and dashes, highlighting otherwise soiled clouds. Just as quickly, color drains. Rain takes over, cold and freezing—ice on the road. A world transformed. Nine species of birds: mourning dove (seven arrows above the road, birds on a mission, pointed on all four ends), barred owl, common raven (heard but not seen), American crow, blue jay, back-capped chickadee, tufted titmouse, white-breasted nuthatch, American tree sparrow (FOY, in the meadow), and dark-eyed junco. 

On a cold, wet morning, woodpeckers at home in the belly of trees. Owl, however, busies himself in the prolonged dim light. Out of the hemlocks and into the oaks. Pauses on a limb, scanning soaked leaves. Separating the sound of rain from the sound of footfalls. Discouraged. Enters deeper into the forest, a dark bird among dark trees on a dark morning. Lost in a vestige of daylight. 

Two gray squirrels hurry along a stone wall, late for a birdfeeder appointment. Bound with alacrity. Sport full winter coat, gray-white and fluffy.

Crows, barking and cawing, flying in all directions. Whatever the plan, no one's in agreement. Two fly west. One east. Another lands in a nearby oak, partially hidden by branches. Perches in the rain and calls for reasons known only to the crow. 

I have a third-grade project assigned by Ms. Katzenstein on a shelf in my office: a short, illustrated booklet titled Why Leaves Change Color. It is bound by orange construction paper, held together by brass push pins, and filled with blue-lined pages crowded with oversized, wobbly print and two-dimensional crayon drawings. Miraculously, the booklet has survived twenty years in the dark of my childhood closet and another forty-five years in my possession—five moves, two marriages, three children, and nine dogs.

Nowhere does the booklet mention fall foliage, trees, leaves, or even autumn. The text covers goldfish (the subject of several pictures) and vegetables, which I spelled three different ways (all incorrectly) and drew in barely recognizable form.

Fortunately, as I grew up, I found photography and spell-checking, reaffirming Alexander Pope’s prophetic line. Hope springs eternal in the human breast.

This morning, I couple Pope’s line with George Harrison's song, All Things Must Pass.