Gray sky with streaks of blonde. A house finch turning its squeaky wheel goes all up and down the scale—a tangle of notes.

A new skim of snow on the gray-brown surface of the world. Scattered flakes so small and light they hardly seem to be headed for the ground.

Headlights briefly rake the porch. Then back to darkness, inhabited by wind, running water, and hunters climbing quietly into the trees.

Canada geese en masse may remind us of choiring angels, but a lone goose sounds ridiculous, like a boy with a changing voice trying to sing.

There are mornings so gray that any revelation seems impossible; this is one of them. Still, the finches forage, the wren does its dance.

Black lace of branches against the sky. When the wind stops, the thick smoke of my breath blocks my view. A tree pops, loud as a rifle shot.