6:39 a.m. 32 degrees, wind N 1 mph. Sky: before the sun, a rose, white, and blue wash east to west across the southern horizon, an island of blue-gray above the marsh. After the sun, a flotilla of silver-edged clouds in a sea of blue. Permanent streams: Driven by dwarf cascades and mini rapids, I stand, eyes closed, lulled by spilling water. Hillside meditation, a magical moment without intent. Wetlands: floor, lightly frosted (like a breakfast cereal). Ceiling, a rumpled blanket with dull-pink highlights, breaking into smaller units, atmospheric mitosis. Pond: closed over, again. Shards and slivers welded into a jigsaw—a stain-glass window without stain. Several milkweed seeds froze on the surface.
Deep in the evergreens, across the marsh, pileated laughs, and, nearby, the tricycle horns of red-breasted nuthatches. A Duck Soup melody . . . Harpo Marx, his feet submerged in Edgar Kennedy's lemonade. Red squirrel bashful on the ground, wired on a limb.
Five chickadees investigate a white birch. Check under curls of bark, the ends of broken twigs. Two others fly into the skeletal crown of big-toothed aspen. Pick at leaf buds. What's in it for the chickadees? Insect eggs? Buds, themselves? Hard to tell from below. On frigid winter nights, chickadee lowers its metabolism—self-induced hypothermia. Between day and night, a temperature drop of more than fifty degrees Fahrenheit, an internal chill that conserves fat and reduces oxygen consumption. May also stimulate internal sound of sleighbells and dreams of Christmas . . . though this remains unproven.