7:13 a.m. 25 degrees, wind E 0 mph. Sky: fog bound. Permanent streams: upper, yesterday's fish-shaped slots joined into two long, shapely openings bordered by a wall of snow. Lower, a pane of ice closes off each hole. Flowing bubbles press against the panes, mobile (and fleeting) Rorschach Tests. Loud water. Wetlands: a carbon copy of yesterday, fog-filled, visibility minimal. Pond: two big, snowless oval patches refroze into pitted ice—lacing of deer tracks.
Low-flying raven, a resonant croak. High-flying crossbills, three flocks, a rain of chatter. Small clusters of red-breasted nuthatches, first evidence since the storm (other than one or two at the feeder). Turkeys hunched over like elderly men strolling along the Coney Island boardwalk: two in the front yard scratching for sunflower seeds, five in the backyard scratching for acorns. Stand on one foot—scratch with the other. A backward kick, oak leaves scatter. Then, step back and examine. Peck, peck, peck. Acorns swallowed whole. Stored in the crop, a grocery-bag of sorts, a pouch, an outgrowth of the gullet (esophagus). Then, pulverized in the gizzard (muscular stomach), one of life's many accommodations for flight. (Teeth: too heavy.)
The morning after the winter solstice, the morning after the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn, and I don't see any dramatic changes, in daylight, in my life, or in anything else . . . other than a splash of late morning sunshine, which makes all the difference. Suddenly, the day jells.