Dripping fog, the snow reduced to patches. Mating season has come for the great-horned owls calling in the distance, one high, one low.
Dave Bonta
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.
More fresh snow—or is this the wind’s work? My house is empty again. The night is loud with trains carrying coal and corn syrup.
I sweep snow off my chair, then look up to see the crescent moon appearing and disappearing behind the clouds. Trees creaking in the dark.
A fresh dusting of snow since midnight, and more flakes in the air. The windows vibrate with the snoring of a late-night reveler.
Rose-tinged feathers puffed out against the fresh snow, the mourning doves look delicious! Their wingbeats are a marriage of fife and drum.
Two squirrels chasing around the trunk of a tulip poplar so quickly, I swear there’s a third. Whose tail is whose? Which one is in heat?
I am blocking on common bird calls—with each sneeze I forget another name. Behind the trees, the sky is white and gold, blue and gray.
The stream this morning is full of auguries, such as: “If you want to be master of all you survey, live in a ravine.” Carolina wren song.
Chickadees and nuthatches are exchanging news, each in its own language as always. I’m watching snow, but hearing the hiss of sleet.
The birds eating seeds on the back steps of the other house all fly at once, the rush of wings like a dovetail shuffle of cards.
Christmas—the quietest morning of the year. The stream is a full chorus. A pileated woodpecker flaps overhead, cheering itself on.
Cold and windy. A chickadee’s two-note spring song echoes off the ridge. Behind the trees, floating above the horizon, one yellow cloud.