6:39 a.m. 39 degrees, wind NNW 0 mph. Sky: clouds, an ephemeral but evolving kaleidoscope of color and shape. Pink, rose, mauve, and a lavender rinse above the marsh; cotton balls, cotton cylinders, cotton mounds, and a nautilus-shaped cloud that curls and fractures into a pinwheel of soft colors . . . an October morning meant for a landscape painter. As the sun rises, aggressive light turns pastel clouds bright silver, almost white-hot. Permanent and intermittent streams: on the move, the gift of a far-off hurricane, gravity, and saturated ground; flow supervised by the ledge. Wetlands: the reason I walk early; a line of malnourished mist above browns and tans, a thread of green; below the last patches of copper and rust-colored leaves; a landscape anchored by an enchanting sky, a palette of color. Two geese circle the marsh, raining honks; three crows, pass in silence . . . let sky speak for them. Pond: the faint rise of moisture, more haze than mist.
Eight crows fly north, followed by the ninth, a laggard, pitch-black beneath pale tangerine.
I love chickadees. If Coyote Hollow was a manuscript, chickadees would the verbs that conjugate the woodlands. Is there a more companionable bird? Unburdened by weather and everywhere active, the crowns of maples, where the last orange leaf overcooks brown; the alders and hazelnuts, the goldenrods, which bend under the weight of a small bird. Chickadees deliver the news in language easy to understand; the number of dees reflects levels of excitement. An owl or a hawk, alone on a limb, gets a barrage, a call to arms. In the front yard, I get two or three widely spaced, an acknowledgment of my presence.
An integration pioneer; chickadees attract titmice, nuthatches, kinglets, sometimes a yellow-rumped warbler or a Carolina wren; they are the glue that binds the flock; their voice the voice of inclusion. Patient. Tolerant. Accessible. Convivial.
And, when Color fades, and the lights go out, chickadees linger, uncompromisingly cheerful, little voices easing into frigid air—plumes of breath, micro-mist on a cold morning. This winter, far more than most . . . I need chickadees.
Oh, this line..If Coyote Hollow was a manuscript, chickadees are the verbs that conjugate its seasons. Brilliant! Love chickadees too and I've become well enough acquainted to recognize a few at my window feeders- Ruffled Tail who always looks like he just got out of bed, Grumpy, who got out of the wrong side of the bed, and Greedy who chases everyone else away. Chickadees!