7:16 a.m. 9 degrees, wind ENE 2 mph. Sky: altogether flat and uneventful,
gray as soiled snow, an absence of sunshine. Permanent streams: the murmur
of water under the ice, soothing on a cold morning. Across the flats,
bracketed by ice, a lane of water can't wait to reach the marsh. Wetlands:
out of a dull green wall, the derisive laughter of a pileated. Hangs in the
cold like deep thought. Bird with a one-track mind, again and again, and
again. Dogs sit down and chew various body parts. I listen intently for
a revelation, a secret that might not otherwise be disclosed if I hadn't
paused, fingers numb, cheeks stinging, to consider something other than the
changing of the political guard. Purpose achieved, pileated stops laughing.
Dogs keep chewing. And I stare into the empty marsh, richer but no more
enlightened than before. Pond: inlet frozen shut. Straining to hear the
flow.

Far, far away, a raven calls. Draws closer. Passes overhead, towing his
voice behind him. A pair of crows. A hairy woodpecker demurely taps a maple
limb. A gentle decree.  Another picks fat from a bag of kidney suet.
Titmice and chickadees, puffed like stuffies, take turns on the feeders.
Jays and doves elsewhere engaged in purposeful activity . . . likely to do
with food.

Flurries punctuate the dull light of a soft-spoken morning, a quotidian
morning in need of engagement. I must extend the crazy thrill of
yesterday, forward and forward, again. Less moved by the memory of the
inauguration, dogs chew on.