Another measurable winter storm is behind us, and the sun is bright upon the fresh white snow. Some residual flakes are falling right now, twinkling like tiny gems in the pale sunlight. The cold has returned as well, with a temperature this morning at barely above 16 degrees, so the heat knocks and bangs on its journey through the ductwork, and the woodstove is working hard to fill in the gaps.
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Yesterday, during the early evening, I was distracted very pleasantly from my writing by an owl hooting very close by. Its single extended “whooo” was loud and insistent, and without taking a look outside, I’m guessing that it was perched in one of the trees that overhangs this place. It stopped when I turned the porch light on to let in one of the cats, and I waited awhile hoping to hear it again. I’ve been seeing a large grayish-white bird soaring low through the trees toward the pond, but I hesitate to conjecture as to what type of owl it is, never having closely observed this particular one.
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The snow lies thick on the roof, icicles are forming all along its edge, and frost ferns decorate my windows these days. Those intriguing shapes never cease to amaze me with their intricacy and random perfection. How does the frost know to curl that way to make just that particular shape, and how do these wonders come so closely to resemble a large bird’s feathers? No hand wielded a brush or tool to create these masterpieces, yet, with the right combination of moisture and cold, there they are, appearing almost overnight.
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Sunshine after a snowstorm is always a welcome thing, lifting the spirits and brightening the landscape, casting bluish-gray shadows across the white icing that swirls around the trunks of trees and clings like cotton bolls to pine branches. The sun’s early morning rays turn the tops of the tallest bare trees yellow, with the pines below providing a grayish-green contrast.
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A small flock of ducks flew by hurriedly one afternoon last week, probably hoping to spot some tiny bit of water somewhere, which isn’t possible just yet. Fishing shacks dot Kennebunk Pond, and the parking lot fills early in the day with those eager to see their little red flags bobbing above the holes they’ve carved in the ice. It won’t be long until I see once again those forgotten shacks left to toss in the water appearing in gaps in the ice at the first true thaw, and I always wonder how their owners manage to get out there to drag them out.
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I got my first Saturday chore of cleaning out the woodstove ashes done early this morning, and at this time of year, I ponder how many more times I’ll have to do this before I don’t need to burn wood as regularly. While the first fires in the fall are pleasant and eagerly anticipated, I must admit that the break that spring and summer afford me is also pleasant. It’s never long, though, before the thought of another first fire is upon me again, as there’s something inexplicably wonderful about the intimate relationship between the flames and the heat they supply me with each winter.
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A flock of very large turkeys visited again today, and I was alerted to their presence by two things: the loud gobbling of one that had stopped beneath my bay window, and the cats running from one window to the other to watch the spectacle of these huge birds digging in the snow for the bread I’d tossed out the day before. They congregated below the porch to nibble on birdseed that litters the ground there, and I was able to take photos before my neighbor’s car approached, sending them all scurrying up the road and into the woods. I was able to watch them for quite awhile between the trees until they disappeared beyond the vernal pool, and wished them well on their winter foraging journey.
— Rachel Lovejoy is a freelance writer living in Lyman. She can be reached via e-mail at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.
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