6:36 a.m. (sunrise two minutes earlier than yesterday). 10 degrees (a National Weather Service cellphone reading but feels colder), wind NW 0 mph. Sky: cloud clogged, blue-gray and spitting snow—tiny flakes, eye-rubbing micro-static . . . no television to bang or rabbit-ear antennae to adjust. Permanent streams: upper, mink, on assignment in the marsh, out of the woods, down the bank, through the culvert. Dutifully, followed the brook, a line of paired tracks; lower, a silent stagnation, Dog Day bland. Wetlands: almost monochromatic, evergreens dark, flat, dull but pileated moved to drum. Out of the dreariness, from high in the bole of a dead pine, a blur of audible activity, approximately fifteen beats per second (much too quick to separate without sophisticated recording equipment), lasts nearly three seconds. Behind me, provoked, second pileated drums, shorter roll, not as resonant. Perhaps, the female. Background vocals, in the hemlocks, above the southern corner of the marsh, roving blue jays honk and scream, strident jaaay, jaaay. Pond: in preparation to skate, someone started to shovel the deep, crusted, dense, cement-heavy snow, then went home.
Maple attendant, a white-breasted nuthatch, spurred to sing. Tufted titmouse calls in the alders, a short series of slow, drawn-out dees, like a medicated chickadee.
Hairy woodpecker rapidly (and I assume joyfully) drums from a resonant limb. Cadence (or raps per second) up to twenty-six. Pauses between each beat infinitesimally short. Too short of separating audibly . . . I almost feel the air vibrate—a woodland tuning fork. Drums when moved, any time of year. Both sexes drum: to define and defend territory (healthier than fighting), often along the borders; as part of courtship and bonding; to solicit sex; for platonic companionship (a technique that might be useful if Covid keeps us house-bound for five more minutes); to communicate over a distance; and . . . for no apparent reason.
Without the equipment to measure the almost unmeasurable hallucinogenic cadence. What's my recourse? Listen and feel, enjoy the little woodpecker in the hardwoods express himself—the sacrosanctity of tuning in. The dogs understand . . . and politely sit at my feet.