No matter how I hold my book, snowflakes make their way onto the page. A hole in the clouds fills nearly to the brim with sun before emptying again. Up on the ridge, a squirrel’s alarm call ends as abruptly as it began.
Swarms of large, amalgamated snowflakes fly past the porch well into mid-morning. When the wind drops for a few seconds, they hover nearly motionless, as if awaiting orders.
Thaw. The snowpack has shrunk by about half, and the snowplowed banks that flank the road have opened their dark dirt hearts. The gray sky turns faintly pink as the wind picks up.
The warmest morning in weeks: less than ten degrees below freezing! White ground, gray sky, and from at least three directions, the sound of gnawing.
Having spent the below-zero portion of the morning snug in bed, I luxuriate in strong sunlight mediated only by the skeletons of trees. Down-hollow, a committee of crows has formed to spread awareness about the location of some poor, drowsy owl.
Cold not as deep as predicted due to a lid of cloud, which eases open in the east—just enough for the sun to flood the western ridge with light. The warble of a house finch.
Bright and bitter cold, with a wind obsessively rearranging the snow. A ragged oak leaf comes tumbling out of the woods and skitters up the road, following a stripe of sunlight.
A heavy, gray sky that from time to time emits a shimmer of fine precipitation. Woodpeckers’ rhythms turn irregular as they move from their drumming trees to their dining trees. A bit of highway noise for the first time in a week.
Cold and still. When my furnace rumbles to a stop, the only sound is a distant titmouse. A sneeze gathers in my sinuses: my explosive homage to the rising sun.
Cold and still as the last few yellow-bellied clouds sail off. A fast raven chase goes over, trailing metallic shrieks. The sun clears the ridge and all the trees don their blue shadows.
A slow snowfall that never quite quits as I sit enjoying the balmy temperature—just seven degrees below freezing!—and the continuing, slow-motion courtship of the squirrels.
Three or four slow-moving squirrels crowd onto the big tulip tree. But there’s a loner 50 feet away, diving repeatedly into the snow as if unable to locate a buried nut. After a while, he retreats into the canopy to eat black birch seeds.
Cold and mostly gray. A gray squirrel at the end of the porch tries and fails to muster the courage to walk past me, approaching, retreating, studying me like the weather.
Wind hissing in the pines. A titmouse’s monotonous call. The distant tone cluster of a train horn. A white-breasted nuthatch pipes up.