Winter on this side, winter on the other side, and in between the road’s dead grass and gravel. One crow cries, high and shrill.
February 24,
A morning for woodpeckers: I hear the trilling of a red-bellied, the cackling of a pileated, and a downy’s steady trepanning of a maple.
Cold, clear, and still. Three dark silhouettes of deer half-running, half-dancing through the laurel with the sun-flooded powerline beyond.