After three months of being written about daily, the world glimpsed from my porch seems more recondite than ever. Slow diatoms of snow.
Plummer’s Hollow
February 22, 2008
Siren, train whistle, a red-bellied woodpecker ululating in the yard. It’s snowing. Squirrel tracks cross the porch in front of my chair.
February 21, 2008
Late to rise, I get a faceful of sun. Sparkles on the frosted snowpack only inhabit the glare between the shadows, like stars on strike.
February 20, 2008
A jeering band of bluejays lands in the locusts. Of human noise, nothing but distant jets. Long fingers of sunlight between the trees.
February 19, 2008
Cloud-bellies at sunrise: white, yellow, blue-gray, mauve. We’re back to cold weather, and only the house finch sounds happy to be alive.
February 18, 2008
Just out of sight through the dripping woods, something dangerous must be passing: a succession of deer blast its odor from their nostrils.
February 17, 2008
Gray sky at sunrise. The porcupine is late; I watch it coming from a long way off. It pauses to chew on the porch—no taste like home!
February 16, 2008
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.
February 15, 2008
Screech owls at dawn—a wavering duet. Winged shadows meet for a second in mid-air, then perch in adjacent treetops, ruffling their feathers.
February 14, 2008
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.
February 13, 2008
Sleet falling into dry snow: a quiet metallic rattle, like robots whispering. My father bursts out onto his porch, hooting at the squirrels.
February 12, 2008
It’s snowing: fine, dry flakes. A squirrel falls out of a tree. Two chickadees drop into the bridal wreath bush to settle a score.
February 11, 2008
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.
February 10, 2008
A gray squirrel sits back on its perch to watch a V of geese. Then it leans forward, embracing the trunk, to nibble on the sweet birch bark.