It hovered in a frozen sky, then it gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
And shivering trees are standing in a naked row
I get the urge for going but I never seem to go
Sharp clear days, bitter nights. Winter has made its entrance. Brown cattails in the marsh, dry stalks rattling in the breeze. Groups of geese and mallards in the lees of the islets, a pair of northern shovelers and a hooded merganser couple working the open water, sculpted ice filming over the shallows. The seasons have finally flipped to cold.
The warriors of winter give a cold triumphant shoutAnd all that stays is dying and all that lives is getting out
See the geese in chevron flight flapping and racing on before the snow
They've got the urge for going, they've got the wings to go
Joni Mitchels’ pean to lost love notwithstanding, winter is a time of subtlety and brief flashes. Gone is summer’s exuberance, its myriad of bright colors clamoring for attention, scraps of orange and bright reds and blues on the wings of butterflies and dragonflies, pure yellows and creams on tucked-away wildflowers. Winter, to me, is when you really get to look—when things you normally wouldn’t see demand you notice them. Blue jays, carrying bits of hot summer sky in their feathers, and cardinals, glowing like banked coals, stand out amidst the grays and browns of the landscape. Red-shouldered hawks change their hunting tactics, moving like cats from branch to branch, hoping to ambush the odd unwary mouse or small bird.
Trees, the garnish of green leaves brown and fallen, stand as living sculptures—oaks with their single column of trunk and elms, branches spreading like upside-down vases, invite inspection and dare you to ID them using only the winter clues. Shy hollys and mountain laurels peek out from the understory, their thick leathery leaves finally noticeable after a seasons worth of blending into the overall green. Berries glow red in the thin winter sunlight, advertising their calories to the birds.
In addition to the skeleton crew of over-wintering locals, migrants have come in from farther north where winter really is a thing of privation and scarcity. Brown creepers, little whiffs of birds fresh from the North Woods, spiral up the trunks of winter-bare trees, gleaning their way up in search of insect eggs and chilled larvae. Nuthatches spiral their ways down those same trunks, finding tidbits over-looked by the upward climbing creepers. Eiders and harlequin ducks, fresh from Greenland and Baffin Island, bob in coastal inlets, while tundra swans have made their long flight from the high arctic to sport in the Potomac and its creeks. For most of these birds, this is about as far south as they get and must seem like a tropical vacation.
A foot and a half of snow changes the equation for everyone. For me it means digging out vehicles and clearing sidewalks and trying to ignore a tiny voice in the back of my head that says “Y’know, your uncle had a heart attack and died while shoveling snow. And you're older than he was.” I pace myself, conscious of my hammering pulse, thankful for a strapping 20-year old son to do the heavy lifting.
Overwintering sparrows work the snow-free ground at the undersides of branches and in thickets, scraping the leaves for tidbits like miniature chickens. Our four species of woodpeckers diligently work the snow-splashed tree trunks. I usually wait to put out my sunflower seed until the first of the year but am seriously rethinking. On the other hand, these are full-time wildlife, adapted to the landscape over the course of millions of years and I am just a part-time bird feeder. I defer to their judgment.
I'll ply the fire with kindling and pull the blankets to my chin
And I'll lock the vagrant winter out and bolt my wandering in
I'd like to call back summertime and have her stay jut another month or so
She's got the urge for going and I guess she'll have to go
And she gets the urge for going when the meadow grass is turning brown
All her empires are falling down
Winter's closing in.
