The same woodpeckers and nuthatches that we heard all winter, but with flickering leaves. The same wind as yesterday, but with golden light.
A red sunrise. Loud rending sounds as a gray squirrel peels bark from the dead elm tree in the yard, hanging upside-down like a nuthatch.
Chickadees and nuthatches are exchanging news, each in its own language as always. I’m watching snow, but hearing the hiss of sleet.
Two nuthatches trade insults from adjacent trees, yelling through their noses like warring doormen in their blue-gray livery.
My left thumb itches, but nothing wickeder than a nuthatch materializes. The sun comes up.