7:10 a.m. 37 degrees, wind SW 2 mph. Sky: low cloud ceiling, tight and smooth. Heavy air, goose-gray and saturated. Tendrils of mist rise out of streambeds, river valleys, marshes, and wet meadows. In between, a constant percolation, a billion drips from last night's downpour, a post-rain patter. Permanent streams: fuller, louder, and less rock ice. Wetlands: rain-deepened color, reeds a rich yellow-brown riveted by dark isles of sweet gale. Raindrops sag from every catkin and twig . . . an astronomical number of jewels. Pond: a withdrawal of ice along the shore. A widening lead of black water from the delta of the stream almost to mid-pond. Stubborn ice puddled and corroded, snow reduced to slush.
Red squirrel with the determination of a house wren, a barrage of invective. Gray squirrel commutes to across the road, headed to the bird feeders. Raven, far off and lost to the gray morning, a single loud, baritone croak. One hairy woodpecker, calling in the gloom.
Chickadees and nuthatches carry on, unstoppable forces. Hide sunflower seeds. Excavate cocoons from recesses in bark, tufts of lichen, bouquets of pine needles, wet mats of leaves. Engaged and purposeful, whether the day is gray or bright or ripped asunder by the wind. For them, the procession of days: eat and sleep; store food; pester an owl; hang-out with neighbors; avoid being eaten. No complaints. For me, nine months into the pandemic, challenged by the monotony of my own repetition. The antidote: search for common birds with uncommon lessons; landscapes in raindrops—a lush and joyful redundancy.