Gusts of wind salted with rain. A bumblebee somehow manages to hold steady, hovering in front of a kerria rose, then going to the elder.
Windy. A blackbird sings atop the neighbors’ aerial—his sharp outline against the sky. I watch a dandelion seed head for signs of flight.
Bright and cold. The wind sounds different from the last time it blew this hard, more hush and rustle—tiny new leaves’ ambitious whispers.
The dead are restless, through no fault of their own: last year’s leaves shuffled about by the wind. But the sun is strong. A phoebe calls.
Wind turns the pages of my notebook. The sun is bright, and I’m feeling happy for the small woodpecker who’s found a very loud branch.
For every red-bellied woodpecker trill, the white-breasted nuthatch has a response, low and nasal. A cold wind on my freshly barbered neck.
Overcast and cold. One by one the birds fly down to the stream, hop around, drink, fly up, and sing. Snowflakes blow past. A tree groans.
After a night of high winds, the forest has several new squeaks and groans, but my light-weight chair hasn’t moved. I sit down warily.
Snowflakes blown off the roof mingle with first-time fallers. A few trees rock back and forth as if trying to rile up the crowd.
Bright sun, bone-chilling wind. The hillside has lost its white blanket, which makes it feel even colder. The clouds are again worlds apart.