7:06 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday). -6 degrees, wind NW
3 mph. Dogs, whiskers extraordinarily frosted, the canine equivalent of
wizened, unshaven men on the Long Beach Boardwalk. Sky: pink in the east
and south. In the west, a hint of yellow with the waning moon polished but
fading. Everywhere else, sunrise blue, pale but . . . promising. Permanent
streams: two-day-old mink tracks sun-widened with an icy insole. Wetlands:
across the marsh, out of the evergreens, a reclusive pileated, a lonely
drum roll. One and done. Pond: a walk across the ice where, last summer,
otter and mergansers ate crayfish. Then, out through the cattail patch,
where bittern and mink held court, and the urgent broadcasts of green frogs
and bullfrogs ran uninterrupted after sunset.

Raven rows north, propelled by voice, trailed by shadow. An outburst of
nuthatches, both species. Sixteen jays convene in aspens, all honking and
barking at once, patiently wait for the feeders to be filled.

Driveway tracks: turkeys; white-footed mice; short-tailed shrew.
Short-tailed weasel, delicate imprints, one tree to the next. Perpetual
hunter doesn't miss a tunnel or a brush pile. Loves stone walls, a
snow-white cascade spills through rocks. An ermine to Brits. An Angel of
Death to mice. White lightning with a black-tipped tail and an exaggerated
diet. Button-cute face, razor-wire teeth. Never a dull moment.

It's hard not to pause for chickadees, particularly at the end of January,
the coldest morning of the year, when one bird leans back and sings, which
instigates three others. I stand at the junction of territories, amid the
discharge of thin whistles. Flock fracturing, the first sign. All at once,
I'm fumbling for my binoculars, hands like lobster claws. Chickadees keep
singing in the alders and maples; four maestros work the score for the next
season. Like a hatch mayflies, a quick burst of enthusiasm. Then, done.
Amicably, go back to feeding—a dress rehearsal for spring.

I heard a chickadee sing on January 11. Now, twenty days later, four. The
simplest of musical provocations on a frigid morning . . . I listen, the
sun warming my face, the chickadees warming my heart.