6:51 a.m. (sunrise two minutes earlier than yesterday). -2 degrees, wind NW 5 mph (musk ox breeze oozes out of the Arctic, windchill -12). Sky: clear and crisp, peach wash, slowly yellows and fades. The crown of Mount Ascutney sharp against the southwestern horizon. Permanent streams: upper, freezing over . . . again; lower, wayfaring mink, after an absence of a week, returned to the local stage for an encore performance. Off the eastern rim of The Hollow and down the frozen lane, pale under a sliver moon. An acolyte of the night. Bounding, bounding, bounding, wide-open, explosive leaps of faith across a landscape of half-starved owls. In and out of snow tunnels, round holes that lead to the black, rushing water. Bitter plunges. Deluxe wetsuit, fur oiled, thick, luxurious, midnight dark. Returned to the surface, again, dripping. Wetlands: welcomed mink. Easy travel through the marsh, solid ground beneath an insulating pocket of air and a foot of snow. Pond: mink left wetlands, traced the pond overflow stream, in and out of the water, the culvert under the road, and up the bank. Always, spring-loaded bounds. Burrowed into a subnivean tunnel. Resurfaced. Rushed across the skating rink, back into snow tunnel, round like a Spaulding, pee stains the foyer. Having been medicated by boredom, dogs snap to attention—noses in the tunnel. Roof collapsing. Wild dog snorts. I join them, sniffing snow . . . a trace of something musky. Mink? Maybe? Amped German shepherds, more likely.
Yesterday, late afternoon, a bobcat crossed out of the woods and into the marsh. I heard the news of the day from a friend, and, hoping to see the cat myself, I scanned the wetlands from the sunroom. Nothing wandered in the open, across the white carpet. Immediately, I headed downhill. Bobcat had left the pines, just below the pond, crossed the road, descending the bank to the outflow stream, high-stepping, feet in single file, before disappearing under a weft of hemlock branches, heavy with snow. An undercover cat searching for a meal or a mate. Always on the move. Rarely exposed. A free-pass to visit The Hollow.
Forcing spring: chickadees whistle in the alders and pines and in maples around the house—plaintive songs, thin and well-spaced. Plumbs of breath rise like wisps of chimney smoke. Two white-breasted nuthatches, rapid-fire solos. Reminds me of wrens, which somewhere inch northward. Jays on the wing, bark, five birds in a loose association. More gang than flock. Head to feeders, vividly blue in the sunlight.
Happy birthday, Charles Darwin. He saw life's single strand woven into millions of distinct patterns, each with a personal history . . . a past, a present, an uncharted future. We may be the only pattern in that strand, the outlier with long-term plans, flawed, out-of-sync, and unrealized as they may be.
I enjoy reading you and look forward to more.
"... under a weft of hemlock branches" and with a "warp" of naturalist Levin's footsteps and daily interpretations and surprising free-associations which form the delivered-daily tapestries we receive via email; and without ever facing a bracing -12 degree wind chill. Sissies astride our radiators? Smiling here. Thanks, Ted.