6:10 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday). 21 degrees, wind NW 0 mph (the glorious fifties forecast by early afternoon). Sky: unsullied, peach infusion east to west. Permanent streams: sun heavily edited the outbound otter tracks, initial text and author unidentifiable. (I've been there; I've felt the pain.) Wetlands: across the marsh, on the far shore facing east, sunlight strides down hemlocks and pine, dull green turns radiant. Frost crusts alder branches and catkins, bundled and suspended from twigs like doll-house salami. Red squirrel forages in the snow, a wisp of red-brown zips by, stops, digs, retrieves, zips away. Pond: standing on the west bank, the morning swarming down Robinson Hill, I watch the oaks and aspens begin to brighten, and the pines begin to glow. Then, my home defines itself: the standing-seam roof and the solar panels gleam; the bird feeders, jostled by hungry jays, blink like flashbulbs. Cedar panels brighten. Snowy pastures become intensely white. My homestead, scripted by the sun, sparkles in the evanescence of first light . . . new day flares.
Sunrise jubilee: chickadees everywhere singing; titmice whistling in the oaks; crows, overhead, flying in all directions, barking and cawing, an aerial, three-dimensional parkway, no congestion. Lone raven burps. Jays roaming, swarm sunflower feeders and suet cage, delivering light signals, three-quarters of a mile away; pick shrimp peels from the compost pile. Pileated laughs. Doves make more noise with wings than throats. Both nuthatch species calling. White-breasted singing. Conspicuous by absence: crossbills.
Cold imposes restrictions. But sunlight unknots. Sap rises. And, somewhere beyond my doorstep, redwings, phoebes, and red-shouldered hawks onboard the seasonal shuttle north. Intentionally, I share my yard with birds. Unintentionally, they share their lives with me—the impassioned pleasures of symbiosis.