7:06 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday). -6 degrees, wind NW 3 mph. Dogs, whiskers extraordinarily frosted, the canine equivalent of wizened, unshaven men on the Long Beach Boardwalk. Sky: pink in the east and south. In the west, a hint of yellow with the waning moon polished but fading. Everywhere else, sunrise blue, pale but . . . promising. Permanent streams: two-day-old mink tracks sun-widened with an icy insole. Wetlands: across the marsh, out of the evergreens, a reclusive pileated, a lonely drum roll. One and done. Pond: a walk across the ice where, last summer, otter and mergansers ate crayfish. Then, out through the cattail patch, where bittern and mink held court, and the urgent broadcasts of green frogs and bullfrogs ran uninterrupted after sunset.
Raven rows north, propelled by voice, trailed by shadow. An outburst of nuthatches, both species. Sixteen jays convene in aspens, all honking and barking at once, patiently wait for the feeders to be filled.
Driveway tracks: turkeys; white-footed mice; short-tailed shrew. Short-tailed weasel, delicate imprints, one tree to the next. Perpetual hunter doesn't miss a tunnel or a brush pile. Loves stone walls, a snow-white cascade spills through rocks. An ermine to Brits. An Angel of Death to mice. White lightning with a black-tipped tail and an exaggerated diet. Button-cute face, razor-wire teeth. Never a dull moment.
It's hard not to pause for chickadees, particularly at the end of January, the coldest morning of the year, when one bird leans back and sings, which instigates three others. I stand at the junction of territories, amid the discharge of thin whistles. Flock in conflict, an early sign of spring. All at once, I'm fumbling for my binoculars, hands like lobster claws. Chickadees keep singing in the alders and maples; four maestros work the score for the next season. Like a hatch mayflies, a quick burst of enthusiasm. Then, done. Amicably, go back to feeding—a dress rehearsal. Peace reigns in the valley.
I first heard a chickadee sing on January 11. Now, twenty days later, four. A simple musical provocation on a frigid morning, the shapelessness of a new season . . . I listen, sun on my face, chickadees in my heart.
Ah, that chickadee heart--another of nature's miracles!
https://www.sibleyguides.com/bird-info/a-seldom-heard-bird-sound/
-6 degrees
Chickadee
One part heart
Three parts feather
How big is the spark
That beats in you
And doing so
Warms us both?
Claudia Kern