7:21 a.m., sunrise one minute earlier than January 7th, 25 degrees, wind NNW 8 mph (the Arctic's cold breath). Stirs trees, a recitation of creaks and moans—a morning monologue. Pines need lubrication. Sky: blue and white striations. Here and there, a pale pink wash. Permanent streams: ice bridges hide zones of flow, amplify sound. An intersection of tracks: deer moving south, jumped the lower stream, and, hushed for months, a family of three coyotes, headed east. Perhaps, to call out the sun and supervise the day. Wetlands: visually and audibly dull, under the blue-white arch of the sky, now drained of pink. To the west, far, far away, and well above the evergreens, a pair of crows commute to Post Mills. Pond: deer returned last night, more tracks. An overcrowded surface flushed with footprints. Collectively morphs from artistic loops and sensuous curls into a scrawled novella. Meaning obscure.
Red-breasted nuthatches, three maybe four, deep within the pines, a run of jays, through and above the trees, crossing the road from one feeding station to another. Chickadees on holiday, quieter than usual. Two hen turkeys under the feeder joined by a trio of gray squirrels. Titmouse, employing arcane calculus, understood best by other titmice, chooses a particular seed. Disappears into a configuration of walnut branches. Returns to the feeder. Selects another. Over and over. Always to the walnut, whose furrowed bark like pantries stocked with birdseed.
I haven't seen a crossbill in a week, a junco, or a goldfinch since the maples blushed. Warblers, forget it. But chickadees, blue jays, titmice, nuthatches, I hold them close. They're here . . . dependable and entertaining. And if a crow or a raven appears, dwarfed by the vast sky, or an eagle, suspended on board-flat wings, I pause for a moment, in a vibrant burst of joy. Without them, the light would not get in.
In these days of the darkness of the human heart, we need the light of the air dwellers. "Eagle Poem" by Joy Harjo is a way for me to share that feeling, even though I'm inside my wee apartment:
To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circles in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.