6:47 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday). 18 degrees, wind N 3 mph, snow en route, storm due arrive tonight. Sky: rumpled and glowing with a dash of pink in the east, pastel purple-gray brushed across the south, brightening and dispersing by the moment. A subtle, transitory cloudscape ambushed by the sun. Permanent streams: the joy of worn-out mink tracks, eroding by the day. Slides, cavities, stream mud on snow, and paired prints edited by the sun. Still legible, still reeking of boundless energy, an old manuscript that passed the test of time . . . in this case, a few days. Wetlands: hot-air balloon a fiery belch behind the evergreens, in and out of view, an inflatable patch-work quilt floating south. Pileated in the pines cuts loose, three reverberating riffs. In between, a minute silence. Then, the patented, maniacal laugher, one run and done—silence, again (except for the balloon). Fir twigs on snow. Courtesy of bud-eating red squirrel, an aromatic lunch, a Christmas-scented meal. Pond: ancient deer tracks in the rink, ephemeral fossils flush to the skating surface, smooth, discolored shadows, each wreathed in cream-colored ice, the detritus of an old snowstorm.
Between the marsh and pond, an ermine in the alders. A bundle of energy investigates everything. Short slides. Long bounds. Angel of darkness for a bog lemming. Linguini for an owl.
In the pines, red crossbills. Fall and winter neighbors since mid-October. Roving residency, already longer than warm-weather warblers and vireoes. But . . . I may not see crossbills again for a decade.
Morning music. Hairy drums an oak limb, warp speed, Max Roach in a tree. More persistent than pileated. Over and over. Rapid-fire. Barely a pause. Immune to headaches. Six gray squirrels chatter under the feeder. Where's the red-tailed hawk? Above the barn, chickadee whistles in the crown of an oak. Head back, bill skyward. Titmouse whistles a truncated song. Blissfully at ease, I listen for a long while, swaddled in bird gossip, a quintessential joy before the storm.
"swaddled in bird gossip"--ah, this is the time of year where finding a way to be "swaddled" keeps the heart warm :-)