Snow whitening the lilac. And here come the cardinals to pose photogenically in the midst of it: loud and obvious red; subtle tan and ochre.
The ice is all gone, but the cedar next to my side door still leans away from the house at a 30-degree angle, like a giant green erection.
Sleet to rain to sleet to rain: the tapping on the roof above my head keeps changing pitch. Faint notes of chickadees, titmice, a nuthatch.
For the first time in weeks, there’s a slow gurgle from where the stream starts. Highway noise. The gray sky is gravid with bad weather.
Freezing rain on new slush—a metallic sound. In the driveway, the herringbone patterns of ATV tracks from last night’s pair of trespassers.
When I first come out, the yard is a giant gyre of birds. They soon segregate themselves: sparrows to the meadow, finches into the birches.
Two deer dash down the slope and up into the woods, turn around and dash back. A repeat performance five minutes later ends in a thicket.
Mid-morning, and the snow on the roof has sprouted tendrils of ice reaching for the ground. They drip; they sway in the breeze; they let go.
Why do I get up? For two trains blowing at once, one high, one low. For the full moon sinking through icy branches. For mourning dove wings.
The world’s white again: even with the wind, a thin coating of snow sticks to every icy surface. Juncos flit through clattering branches.