On a mind of winter

surveying the scene right in my backyard

To me, winter is a gift. The season reminds me to slow down and simply observe nature. It implores me to be silent, to be detached, to get out of myself a little bit.

It’s Saturday morning and we’re sitting in the living room looking out the window at the bird feeder. I just got back in from filling the mealworm tray, cracking the ice out of the water bowl onto the ground with my boot, and filling it up with hot water. Steam billows above it, while the morning sunlight reflects on the sloshing surface, rocking back and forth in the shallow bowl. It’s so cold out this morning that a thin layer of ice will form before I’ve even finished my first cup of coffee. But as I walk away, several songbirds alight on the side and gingerly tip over, head in the bowl, to take a drink.

Earlier this week we were visited by a new raptor. We’ve seen it twice. It made its entrance by ceremoniously flying in, wings outstretched, to land on the very top of the swaying pole. At least twenty or more tiny chittering birds exploded up from the ground and out from the feeders in a burst — all frantic wings and tail feathers. The raptor sat proudly for a few minutes, in a silent and empty yard, while I watched at the window with my computer in my lap, googling all of its markings.

Two days ago, I spotted it again, sitting posture perfect on a low branch inside the tangle of vines by the side yard. It had a pretty good view of the bird feeder.

Sharp shinned hawk in flight. This one has been eyeing the feeder from the vines

“Well, the streak is over,” said my spouse Janyce walking up behind me where I stood still at the sliding glass door. “I got another mouse in the trap in the basement near the bulkhead.”

“Shh,” I said. “Look.”

“Whoa! Go get the camera, quick,” she said.

I managed to snap a quick picture just as it was taking off.

“You know it’s going to catch one of my purple finches soon,” I said.

“Well, I don’t know, maybe if we’re lucky, it will catch some of the mice,” she said.

Another winter spent mostly in the house isn’t so bad when you have this view. So many people I know want to get away from winter, travel to a warm climate to rest beside an ocean or to sit on a chaise lounge sipping a fruity drink by a glassy pool. As nice as that is, I don’t want it at this time of year. To me, winter is a gift. The season reminds me to slow down and simply observe nature. It implores me to be silent, to be detached, to get out of myself a little bit. This week, I’ve done a pretty good job of just that. Nothing. I didn’t read much. I didn’t watch the news. I haven’t been thinking about anything in particular. Instead, I’ve been watching out the window and taking note of how fast the ice forms on a steaming pool of water, and how the morning sun lights up the tops of the bare branches first and then gradually inches its way down the tree trunks.

One of my favorite poets captures the idea of a “mind of winter” perfectly in a simple meditative poem. On this frigid winter morning, I’ll leave you with that.

The Snow Man 
BY WALLACE STEVENS

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.