7:03 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday). 27 degrees, wind NNW 10 mph. Sky: opening up, lanes of colorless light. Fourteen inches of heavy snow blanket the Hollow. I wish you were here, skinning up the west saddle of Robinson Hill, where owls gather and a wandering cat, whose paws don't sink in the fallout of storms, takes a mid-day nap. A dog at your heels, stepping on your skis. And you turn, with your mother's smile, forgiving. Permanent streams: upper, mink dimples the snow, returns to the marsh, appetite on the loose; lower, hillside descent, a hidden flow, snow to slush on level ground. Wetlands: desolate and scoured, the illusion of remoteness, beyond the wind evergreens hold snow. Pond: in suspension, not a track, not a chickadee in the nearby maples.
Three crows head east, silently. Making up for yesterday, unfettered nuthatches and chickadees non-stop calling. Seemingly ubiquitous. No songs, however. I try my best chickadee whistle . . . no answer. A hairy woodpecker testing pine limbs, soft taps, wood throbs like a tuning fork. Eleven turkeys in the front yard scratch sunflower seeds, a big-bird explosion when I appear. Pitch into the pines, high on stout limbs, a blast of snow.
Yesterday, late afternoon: I snowshoed across the marsh, high-stepping like a drum major. A foot of snow, a foot of air space below the snow, and, unheeding, two German shepherds on my heels, literally. Less forgiving than Jordan, I put the dogs in their place . . . again and again and again. They look at me with moist, goose-egg eyes. Life goes on.
Thanks for sharing the memory of Jordan and his skis and the dog--you certainly have a richness of memories, which is a poignant gift. Your gift to me today is the memory of cross-country skiing four miles, pitching a tent in winter, and bundling up in down sleeping bags, with two golden retrievers making a sandwich of me. Saudade treasures.
https://www.npr.org/sections/altlatino/2014/02/28/282552613/saudade-an-untranslatable-undeniably-potent-word