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It doesn't take a hard wind to get the trees talking, merely the right wind. A nuthatch's nasal commentary. The whistling of doves' wings.
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A half-hour before dawn, the stars begin to lose their luster--always a more melancholy thing than a sunset to me. The wind picks up.
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A slate-gray sky. From the birdfeeder up at my parents' house, the sound of squabbling crowds, pushy as bargain shoppers ahead of the sleet.
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The snow gives them away--a crunch of footsteps, the unambiguous shapes: five turkeys 150 feet away, going single-file through the laurel.
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@ChrisClarkeCRN Oh hey, so they did! Cool. I hope the other recipients of the newsletter are more careful readers than I was.
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@yemsky Dude, no way!
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An hour before dawn, a deer-shaped shadow drifts out of the woods, apparitional against the snow, like the photographic negative of a ghost.
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That drum so low it sounds as if it's in your head? A ruffed grouse, beating the air with its wings like one hand clapping. Or so they say.
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Enough snow now to make the ground a blank page for the calligraphy of weeds and the meandering tracks of birds, the prints of their wings.
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@haikuhabits Hey, thanks for the re-tweet!
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Porcupine in a cherry tree - a thrilling, action-packed video shot from my front porch: http://ur1.ca/ts2
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Two inches of fresh snow, and already the black cat is taking a shit in the middle of the driveway. Small pink clouds clutter up the sky.
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Mid-morning, and many of the feeder birds are sitting quietly in the treetops, silhouetted against the whitening sky. Bright smudge of sun.
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@writingasjoe I only have to walk 100 feet. It is uphill, though.
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The moon inches upward through the trees with the earth's glowing shadow between its horns. Two train whistles converge, one high, one low.
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Snowflakes in the air: the small, light variety that fall at ten degrees below freezing. They drift sideways, glistening in the sun.
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Another half-inch of snow on the ground, on the porch, on the horizontal limbs at the forest edge: pale arms outstreched in the darkness.
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@bevson Thanks! I was also thinking that, brilliant though the title "Silent Spring" may have been, a silent winter would be so much worse.
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Cold, gray, and windy, with a new half-inch of snow. The only flicker of warmth is a chickadee's call--the pilot light in a stone-cold oven.
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Clear sky, and the meadow white with frost: an almost-winter morning. Juncos forage at the edge of the woods, wings flashing in the sun.
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