7:00 a.m. 37 degrees, wind NE 0 mph. Sky: a ponderous cloud, low and thick. The valley a vessel of fog. Permanent streams: rushing to the marsh. A patch of fallen birches, white on brown earth, graveyard of tree trunks. A shallow-rooted birch came down in the rain last night, trunk across the lower stream, a gleaming, peeling femur of a tree. Wetlands: arrested visibility, muted colors. In the pines, red squirrel chatter and then an evanescent bird-like trill, liquid and sweet . . . as though the squirrel had taken voice lessons. Or, perhaps, a homesick hermit thrush. Pond: corroding surface, lidded but porous, more slush than ice.
In Pomfret, yesterday, a rough-legged hawk flew east above a pasture, in the White River's direction. Slow, rhythmic wingbeats, white tail teasing the breeze, opening and closing like a card trick. Dark terminal band a far-off signature. A big hawk, loosened from the Arctic. A sojourner. Dairy cows paid no attention, milled around the edge of the field waiting to be fed. Sometimes the world overhead simply passes by unseen.
The holler of a pileated, laughing at a private joke. Red-breasted nuthatches diligently inspect maple twigs, ash furrows, and birch flagging, where curling paper meets tree. Following the nuthatches example, titmouse prospects the creases and crinkles of a maple limb—a dignified solitary, little bird. Crest erect. Takes his time. More formal and less animated than chickadees that flit and chat nearby.
For the time being, this is my valley, my nourishment. I come here, not as a visitor, but as a participant, the stenographer who describes in shorthand, the painter who renders in impression, a familiar landscape beyond words.
And so you join Thoreau and Annie Dillard in being a witness to a special place--for him, a pond, for her a creek, for you a valley. Here in this retirement community, I have a patch of moss behind my wee apartment--after reading GATHERING MOSS by Robin Wall Kimmerer, I realized even the smallest life is worthy of awe and attention!