At daybreak, the Pileated Woodpecker gores the locust tree behind the shed. It’s barely above zero and snowing tiny cold crystals. I watch and count the male cardinals. Nine, I think. Towhees, rosy finches, goldfinches, chicadees, titmice…all ravenous, patiently waiting. The driveway is a sheet of ice under fresh snow.
Yesterday, I watched the Sharp-Shinned Hawk sunning himself in the late afternoon. Biting wind ruffled his feathers while he carefully and methodically tucked one talon at a time up under his body for warmth. I waited, wanting to see him fly; concerned that his presence was keeping the small birds from gathering on the feeders. As the light faded, I opened the window and watched him swoop to the west, circle twice and head north.
WINTER HOURS I
In the winter I am writing about, there was much darkness. Darkness of nature, darkness of event, darkness of the spirit. The sprawling darkness of not knowing. We speak of the light of reason. I would speak here of the darkness of the world, and the light of ________. But I don’t know what to call it. Maybe hope. Maybe faith, but not a shaped faith–only, say, a gesture, or a continuum of gestures. But probably it is closer to hope, that is more active, and far messier than faith must be. Faith, as I imagine it, is tensile, and cool, and has no need of words. Hope, I know, is a fighter and a screamer…
January 16, 2009 at 10:20 pm |
Every morning this week I saw the same exact images you so well paint with words. Nature never ceases to amaze me. The photo you took is beautiful.
February 8, 2009 at 1:28 pm |
A wonderful post that read like a poem – and then Mary Oliver, too – what a feast!