Plummer’s Hollow

Just out of sight through the dripping woods, something dangerous must be passing: a succession of deer blast its odor from their nostrils.

It’s back down to 10°F this morning. So engrained, to think of cold as down and heat as up—the opposite of the true situation here on earth.

Sun behind the trees. A chickadee singing its “charee-charup” song—or so it sounds to me, whole layers of meaning hidden from primate ears.

After yesterday’s high winds, the trees have a number of new complaints. 2°F. From up around the feeders, a endless wittering of finches.

Snow. A male cardinal lands in a birch tree, and the woods behind him suddenly seems so much whiter. Finches ride tall weeds to the ground.

Up too early, I’m greeted by a new darkness, the snowpack reduced to a tiny patch on the driveway. The gurgle of water. White noise of wind.

A 30-second downpour, followed by a flash and a rumble. A white-throated sparrow ventures three notes of his allegedly sorrowful song.