7:15 a.m. 19 degrees, wind NW 8 mph. Sky: clear, a pale peach veneer in the south, several silver-rimmed clouds in the east. Here Comes the Sun, a much-anticipated event. During civil twilight: feeder birds already busy, including Ernie the Hungarian partridge, who stands on the stone wall, fluffed out, a ball of mottled brown faces the sun like a shaman. Permanent streams: upper, nearly open, aqueous whisperings. Three sets of turkey tracks—I watched them cross the road yesterday afternoon. Follow the north edge of the stream and then veer off toward my front yard. Lower, above the road, sealed shut and babbling; below, sealed shut and hushed. Wetlands: in a holding pattern, same as yesterday, same as the day before. Cold. Beige and white marsh. Conifers, dull green and white, snow slides off branches, smoky discharges. Seven chatty crossbills over the marsh, red or yellow-green, bathed in fresh sunlight. Pond: night after night, deer track up the banks and south end, cervid calligraphy. Oldest inscriptions icing in, ephemeral fossils.
Raven and pileated, both hidden, trade calls. Two crows let loose with a barrage of caws. An ensemble of blue jays, chickadees, and nuthatches, both species. Hairy and downy on the suet cage. Turkeys elsewhere.
Sunlight unmasks the valley's hidden beauty, bastes the upper branches of aspens, which appear to smile, an infectious tree sort of a smile. (Not at all wooden.) Light like melting wax flows down limbs and trunks. Three months ago, when Earth tilted in another direction, aspen leaves, buttery yellow and in perpetual motion. Six months ago, scarlet tanagers, their lives forged by the tilt, sparked the crowns when they paused to sing. In October and June, I took sunlight for granted . . . but not now. Not today. I join Ernie on the stone wall, my face to the sun, smiling. He runs away.