7:22 a.m. 27 degrees, wind NW 9 mph. A quarter-inch of snow fell last night, sugar-coating the woods, perfect for tracking something other than deer and red squirrels . . . if something other than deer and red squirrels had crossed my path. Sky: the few clouds in the south on the move, edges frayed. Otherwise clear, pale blue, mauve rinse across the southern horizon. Wind like traffic whooshes. Trees creak. Lean leaves whisper, thinnest of windchimes. Permanent streams: ice-glaze on twigs and stems thicker than yesterday. Unchanged melody. Wetlands: frozen tributaries and main channel white threads in a beige expanse of reeds. Overhead, the chatter of passing crossbills. Pond: delta of feeder stream closing shut. Newer, thinner ice warmer than older ice, more sprinkling, less dusting. Snow-healing: long seams fill in, barely noticeable.
Two white-breasted nuthatches calling in the hardwoods. One red-breasted nuthatch in the pines. Here and there, a smattering of chickadees and blue jays. Turkeys elsewhere.
A convocation of gray squirrels, seven assemble on two Adirondack chairs as if posing for a family portrait. Two male hairy woodpeckers on the feeders. Spill more than then they eat. Jays benefit—tidy up the lawn, seed by seed. Decision-makers: titmice and chickadees evaluate the feeder, grab a seed, and leave—private dining (or provisioning for later), mostly on the black walnut.
Winter sunshine, glorious sunshine, pours down Robinson Hill, spreads across the valley, warms boulders, melts snow, rewrites my morning. For me, there's no second-guessing. I abide by an ancient code . . . loyalty to place. Face the sun, pledge allegiance. On the cusp of 2021, amid chickadees and jays, and reinvigorated, I take-on chores and imagine the future . . . a stolen kiss, holding someone's hand.
I wish you all that and more.