6:25 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday). 36 degrees, wind SSE 6 mph. Sky: leaden and foggy, dripping, every bud hung with the weight of rain or condensed fog. Three weeks shy of the equinox, weather schizophrenic—feels like October, looks like January, wind direction more May (without the birds) than March. Road glazed and slippery. A micro-drizzle so fine; I need proof that I'm not walking through a broken cloud. Permanent streams: to quote Yogi Berra, "It's like deja vu, all over again." Wetlands: somber and dreary, red-breasted nuthatch, in the tightness of evergreens, toots across the marsh. Pileated keeps to himself. Pond: surface puddles in old footprints, mine and the dogs, and a fox running errands, heading west—dainty prints in a straight line.
Red squirrel, in a hurry, runs under its curlicue tail, carried like an umbrella. Inside the woods, a convocation of crows. Outside, chickadees chase each other around maple. No pauses to sing, just chase, chase, chase. Above the woods, crossbills spill calls. Titmice whistling, more hear, hear. Where's peter? Jays, neighborhood linguists, kibbitzing about the weather, and the rollout of vaccines.
Fox tracks in the woods, spots of bright yellow pee, a classified ad announcing presence and desire. Smells like a skunk, a pungent, pheromone-laced broadcast wafting across the airwaves. An olfactory directional signal. Browsing the Hollow's headlines. Today, a fox. Tomorrow, perhaps, a raven or a peregrine back at the nearby Fairlee Cliffs or across the Connecticut River on Holt's Ledge. Then, the running of sap, the arrival of redwings, the departure of crossbills and redpolls. A hermit thrush at dawn. The magistery of northbound geese, whose call stirs the blood, theirs and mine. And before you know it . . . a crocus in the dooryard.
Even in noticing seemingly mundane events or random outlier events , I take comfort in the repetition of your ritual daily walk, a form of worship. And like a Buddhist mandala, each new week or month sweeps the past weeks' events away and it all starts anew. March 1 already. Almost the 1-year anniversary... when did you post the first Homeboy? Sometimes I wait to unpack this daily blog for the sanity and calm it imparts... and less so on weekends when try to stay off the e-devices and just be. Thanks, Ted.
As I walked my pack of three along Dorchester Road, I was grateful for the drizzle and warmth of this March 1st. The parade of individual skiers, each in his/her own car took a break today and we could walk safely, always deferring to neighbors running errands and the UPS driver. From your vivid descriptions I could recognize deer and fox prints on Grant Brook. I have learned so much from your posts and I thank you for this education. My dogs thank you for motivating me to get outside with them. I saw the brook flowing in places and felt a promise of spring. Dayanu.