7:18 a.m. 36 degrees, wind N 5 mph. Sky: gray, no sign of the sun. A
rotation of drizzle, rain, and snow. Occasionally, tiny, white pellets of
ice that bounce on impact—raindrops on twigs. The road is frozen and
slippery, a micro-spikes morning . . . first time this winter. Permanent
streams: upper, an absence of ice; lower, open below the bridge and above,
on the rock-studded, west-facing slope, still closed and muted. Wetlands:
saturated colors. Beige, a deeper shade of brown. Seen through wind-driven
rain, marsh and shoreline in surprisingly sharp relief. Pond: a
figure-eight, several shovel-widths wide cleared by a skater (or an
ambitious deer).

Standing in the middle of the road, spikes digging into the ice, I listen
to a pair of red-breasted nuthatches in pines to the west and a
white-breasted to the east, alone in maples. Jays, here and there, back and
forth, to and fro, subdued, the product of cold rain and a north wind. An
underrepresented population at the feeders. But still busy in inclement
weather. In the backyard, jays excavate buried acorns, look bedraggled,
feathers matted and grayer than blue, gray like the sky.

Morning can't make up its mind. Snow turns to rain turns to snow turns to
rain. Abruptly, five chickadees fly into the front yard cherry. Silent but
graceful, the elegance of indifference. Two visit the feeder. The others
pause in the tree for a nanosecond, a water bead on the tip of each bill.
Then, off to the feeder and back, again.

Indoors, wandering from window to window, eating toast, sipping coffee,
cocooned in wood heat, I watch birds being birds. Exuberant and nonchalant
on a gray, messy morning.