Old Man Winter

A fierce North Wind has been howling through the passes 

as it rushes down from Canada's Frazier River Valley. 

It is bitterly cold and despite well insulated walls, 

the cold fingers of Old Man Winter reach through, 

leaving me shivering despite many layers of warm clothing. 

Worried about tiny hummingbirds, chickadees, and the sweet, gentle doves, I set my alarm for dawn. 

At first light I set out hummingbird feeders, brought inside for the night to keep from freezing. 

I bundle up in warm coat, hat and gloves to fill feeders while hungry birds wait above.  

I set out cut apples, oranges and 'past their prime' grapes for hungry Robins, wintering over in our usually mild climate. 

Suet feeders get filled for Northern Flickers and Downy Woodpeckers.

Dry dog food is scattered for Stella Jays and Varied Thrushes.

All day and night the relentless wind howls.
It is a lonely, desolate sound - this steady roar of rushing ether,
singing the sad song of a wild and lonesome homeland. 

Deep snow blankets the hills surrounding the small river valley as I gaze through frosty windows. Stepping out in the icy morning air, I hear the inexplicable sound of seabirds wintering over in a high mountain lake, hidden from view. 

I watch them rise from their morning feeding, slicing through the air on pale, slender wings, dipping and soaring like lost souls in a foreign land. We are miles inland, but mountain streams filled with young salmon keep them nourished while competing bears slumber though late winter. 

An owl flew through the clearing at dusk last night, 

and a young eagle rose from the field across the road
when I walked to the gate to retrieve the morning paper. 

It was the same field that a cougar was seen furtively crossing on a late November evening. 

 Later, a small flock of birds flew head long into the brambles, one by one, and I wondered why. 

It was the young eagle, flying out from a perch high in the Silver Fir, that gave me the answer. 

Was it either of these winged hunters that killed the gentle dove, leaving the evidence in a pool of feathers at the end of my walkway? 

Or was it the agile and swift Cooper's Hawk that remains to be seen, but lets his presence known with a piercing whistle, causing the Stella Jays to riot around him? 

For days they have tried to drive away this hungry intruder by forming an angry mob. 

I never know what awaits beyond the front door on any given morning. Years of experience have taught me that I am just a visitor to this wild land I call home. I always remain vigilant and aware, treating nature with cautious respect, paying close attention to warnings and signs. Sweetly singing birds are a good omen. 

Silence is not. 

Close encounters with large predators make me grateful for brave and loyal canine companions. 

So as I rise to witness a cold winter dawning, I am acutely aware of the fragility of life. 

Nature teaches hard lessons in this never ending quest for survival. 

As I set out the life sustaining nectar for the tiniest of nature's beings, I am reminded of how important kindness, generosity, cooperation, and compassion are in our efforts to survive.

xoxo

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.

- Cecil Frances Alexander -
1818-1895