7:07 a.m. (sunrise one minute earlier than yesterday). 3 degrees, wind NW 4
mph (whenever I blink, my eyes water). Sky: white and emerging blue, a
suggestion of flurries, a promise of sunshine. Permanent streams: mink,
down the lower streambed yesterday, threaded the upper today. Twenty-four
hours among the reeds. Left beneath the silver light of the moon,
accompanied by shadow—fresh prints, toes distinctive. Under the road, over
jumbled rocks and panes of ice, beyond the hemlock wall, still dark.
Flexible as a snake, hot blood coursing. Dark brown fur, the envy of the
nineteen-sixties. I ran my fingers through my mother's coat a thousand
times, soft, thick, lustrous, earthy brown. Looks better on a mink.
Wetlands: across the marsh, dark teal to nearly black, many shades of
worn-out green. From inside the brooding forest, a proclamation. Two drum
rolls, well-spaced and resonant—a riveting pileated. No one answers. Pond:
a plowed rink takes shape. Christmas overtones . . . the red wooden frame
of a hockey goal joins the green bench.

Front-yard assemblage: five hairy woodpeckers, nine doves, five jays, and
who knows how many chickadees. Downy woodpecker patiently waits in cherry
for a chance at a sunflower seed. Or a piece of kidney suet. Hairy
woodpeckers, in charge, commandeer feeding stations.

An ecological treadmill under the weight of an Arctic airmass. Then,
sunlight breaks through—opportunity blooms. Nuthatches call. Downy gets a
chance at the suet cage. Twelve turkeys assemble in the back yard, scratch
up acorns. Heat on my cheeks, my outlook thaws.