6:54 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday). 5 degrees, wind E 0 mph. Sky: aerial and time-lapse imitation of plate tectonics, blue-gray cloud continents fracturing, merging, then vanishing into a sea of faint peach that brightens and drains by the moment. Three inches of fresh snow, world gleams. Permanent streams: upper, closed again and quiet; lower, a silent, trackless, snow-filled cleft, a photocopy of yesterday. Wetlands: as the Earth turns, sunlight, like cold syrup, spreads down the western evergreens and slowly crosses the marsh, one reed at a time. From Robinson Hill's shoulder, behind the wall of light, pileated issues a manifesto, two well-spaced volleys that reverberate against the cold, sunny morning. I am here. This is mine. I wait, hoping for the woodpecker to emerge from the woods and into the light. No luck. For the moment, only sunlight and a pair of ravens advance above the marsh. Pond: plowed and visited by a deer. Four ravens on a double date, head east, obsidian feathers polished by the light.
Unmoored by the sun, ravens calling, a hollow, bell-tone . . . rock, rock, rock, the sweetest sound of the morning. Avian linguists. Speak in tongues. Raven utters at least seventy-nine distinct calls, twenty of known meaning. Some learn calls from their mates, others from same-sexed neighbors up to ten miles away. So varied the raven's vocal range, the species repertoire may be limitless. Dialects. Accents. Individually recognizable voices. Ravens mimic—other birds, barking dogs, slamming doors, and so forth. A bird with the gift of gab. Notifies the absence of action rather than the course action. Here's what I won't do . . . rather than here's what I intend to do.
Another raven flies north, a lone bird (for the moment) on the cusp of the mating season. Territories wildly spaced. Nesting sites: vertical cliffs and towering trees, all uncommon. The solo bird may join a social club of other unmated ravens and patiently wait for a bereaving adult to seek a new partner.
Untethered, a male white-breasted nuthatch breaks loose wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah . . . a mating song, over and over from the crown of an aspen, just above the stone wall. Reminds me of a whispering pileated. Crooner not alone. Perched below the nuthatch, seven jays, captivated by the simplicity of warmth, face the sun, breasts bright as snow. Nuthatch sings. Jays sunbathe. And I head to the woodstove, hands of stone, fingers in a knot.
Raven linguistics - thank you. Its all been "croak" to me.