Friday morning

27 January 2017

— thick hoar frost this bright morn

We’re having a quintessential New England winter morning on the other side of my large, thermal, south-facing windows. To the east, beyond my garden fence, the copse of trees, the road, and the gentle rise of the wheat field, the sun came up through bands of the most delicate pale lavenders and salmon pinks.

Thanks to yesterday’s fog, all my bushes and fence posts are bearded with tiny crystalline whiskers back-lit by the sun, and best is when the small birds fly between me and the sun so that their wings are luminescent and almost transparent. Because of the covering of ground frost, they are here in their dozens today,  the small tits in their livery of blue hats and yellow vests, the thrushes, bullfinches, and a variety of such sparrows as …

I just went to get my bird book, took a detour to see a man about a horse, refilled my coffee up, made a side trip back to the bedroom to pick up my iPhone which I have cross-my-heart promised dozens of people I shall keep with me at all times, but especially if I am about to fall down the cellar stairs and/or have a major coronary, and now that I am sitting again I see I left the birdbook somewhere in transit.

The heck with it! Sparrows are sparrows, and in their subdued fashion are as beautiful as red-winged blackbirds..

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron