Another gray morning. A groundhog on walkabout freezes every six feet, eyes quick and brown as the shadow of a fox. Finches’ squeaky calls.
A few flakes in the air. A gray squirrel wanders through the lilac branches, scattering a pair of juncos. The squeaky calls of finches.
A cloudless morning. The squeaky chatter of winter finches, so forlorn on an overcast day, now seems like the sound of happiness itself.
Wind and water, scattered chirps of winter finches, the sound of two freight trains going through the gap: exactly the music I needed.