7:14 a.m (Sunrise a minute earlier than yesterday. Did I notice? No.) 12
degrees, wind NNW 7 mph, my world a drafty, obstacle-strewn, walk-in
freezer. Sky: a variety of clouds against the rose of sunrise. Otherwise,
clear. Snow blowing off limbs, clumps rain down. Permanent streams: raccoon
on a walkabout along the upper; lower, mostly closed, its song more a gasp
than a murmur. Wetlands: white, luminous marsh before a drifting school of
clouds (white fish in a blue sea). Pond: inlet closed, feeder stream
frozen. Coyote tracks at a right-angle across the southwest corner.  . . .
not as adventurous, not as ambitious as the deer was. More the
mathematician than the artist.

Yesterday, an agitated crow flew into a red pine, perched on a limb, leaned
toward me, and cawed. Switched trees, cawed. Switched trees, again, always
leaning in my direction. Always cawing. Today, a crow above the west rim of
the marsh ignores me.

Raven, louder than the wind, his voice rising through the traffic. Patches
of nuthatches, chickadees, titmice, jays near the marsh and the alders,
close to feeders, or brittle pine woods, an investigation of bark and
limbs. Squirrels sleep in, warm tails draped over cold noses. Not weasels.
A short-tailed, a night-shift hunter, tracks in and out of snow tunnels,
crosses the road, and disappears into a stone wall. Well-spaced, paired
prints. A bounder. A springer. Squinches together, back in a hump, then
explodes . . . a razor-toothed inch-worm with oomph—royal white with a
black-tipped tail. Cuter than friendly. Always curious. Once, years ago,
while twelve people ate lunch by a campfire on the rim of Hudson Bay, I
squeaked a weasel out from under a cabin. Bold weasel took scaps of food
and returned for more. Again and again. Fearless guest. In the 1820s,
Audubon shot a bald eagle along the Hudson River. The bird wore the
sun-bleached skull of a weasel pinned to the skin of its throat, the
remains of predation gone awry—the steel-jawed clamp of an indefatigable
defender of its own life.

White-footed mice and short-tailed shrews: tracks and trenches.

Pileated elsewhere. No fresh chips on snow. Doves elsewhere, the grit
collection over . . . for the moment.

By happy chance, by overt stubbornness, and a dose of the miraculous,
unintentional contrivances the day, the month, the year . . . the remainder
of my life look forward—the blessed joy of rhythms and surprises.