Tuesday November 27, 2018

Light snow powdering my black sleeves. I watch a nuthatch inspect each branch of a walnut, its sideways hop and dip when it finds a morsel.

On this date

Scattered snowflakes like free-range musical notation for scattered chirps—chickadee, nuthatch. A hint of sunrise fading from the clouds. …

Bitter cold (-16°C) and still. The rising sun appears in a tiny gap between the trees as if this is all we're allotted, this bristly thing. …

Eyes shut to the strong sun, I watch the shadow-flicker of meltwater dripping from the eaves, the icicles letting go like vestigial tails. …

Last night's torrential rain has given way to wind, sunlight shimmering on the flooded stream and the waxy leaves of mountain laurel. …

Mesmerized by the snow, after a while I forget that that steady twittering isn't the sound the flakes make as they fall. It's just juncos. …

For hours last night the rain gutter thundered, so now once again the ground has been un-erased; snow remains only where the plow piled it. …

A gray day loud with traffic. The snowpack has slid half-way off the metal roof over the oil tanks, curling under the eaves like a claw. …

Sunlight softened by high clouds. A great stillness, punctuated by the flutter of sparrow wings and a chickadee singing its spring song. …

Flat white sky and a long, low rip of sound: some military jet. The first flakes drift back and forth, as if unsure of their destination. …

Last night's wet snow sticks here and there—blank spaces on the wind's map. One of the 50-odd bergamot heads still wears a toque blanche. …

It's one of those perfect winter mornings from my childhood: bright sun on deep snow and even the shadows sparkling as I shake my head. …

Warm and windy. I've been staring at the same dim star for five minutes now. The roaring on the ridge drowns out every other sound. …

Barely audible over the stream: claws on bark, slow footsteps. A porcupine's round shadow crosses the yard and squeezes under the porch. …

The Morning Porch