Winter's Return

A fragile scrap of waning moon rose early this morning and was visible for a minute or two before clouds rolled in. Temperatures were several degrees below zero overnight, and as I looked at the moon though my kitchen window, I could hear the north wind cavorting across the roof shingles and cantering briskly through the eaves of the little blue house in the village.

There was a dusting of fresh snow at sunrise, the sound of snapping and crackling as winter birds danced from twig to brittle twig among the bare shrubberies and did a little chilled singing to greet the day. Our birdbaths have yet to emerge from the deep snow in the garden, but hillocks of white stuff mark their location, looking for all the world like pointed Chinese hats.

Now and then, there are balmy, brilliant blue days in early March, but we are back to winter for the next few days, leaden skies from here to there, bitter winds out of the north, snow and ice pellets, sometimes freezing rain. We wandered in the woods for a while this weekend, but after only a few clicks, my fingers were blue, and back into heavy gloves they went.

Wonder of wonders, the gnarly old willows down by the creek were putting up lovely furry catkins in their protected alcove, and the icicles below them cradled tiny branches and fragile scraps of green. Snow blanketed everything in my favorite woodland clearing, but water in the little stream at my feet was running free and singing. Willows and song and flow are still percolating in my thoughts this morning, a day or two later.

A strange blending of seasonal images and motifs perhaps, but this is what my native place looks like at this time of the year, and I am quite all right with it. There is light in the icicles, in thawing streams and fuzzy little willow buds. I cling to the thought and turn my collar up against the gelid wind.