Last Tuesday, for the third consecutive week, I stayed home on a school day because of icy weather.
This did not prevent me from getting up and going through the motions, however. I woke at 4:30 a.m. to discover that sleet had fallen continuously for over eight hours and had covered the world with a thick layer of crusty ice. I made an attempt to run the snow blower up the driveway, but there really wasn’t much for it to grab onto.
The temperature was holding at 31, but the moisture content was high and the crust seemed like a slightly yielding pavement.
I returned inside, showered and got dressed, and then turned on the TV to check for cancellations. At 5:40 a.m., with no word from school, I had to get into the car and start my drive. About five minutes later, when I had managed to get just a few miles from home, my wife Susan called me and let me know that school had been called off.
I was concerned about having any success climbing the hill back up to my house, but I managed to get home without incident. I did cringe a bit when I passed the ditch that had made my acquaintance a couple weeks earlier.
So, completely awake, I found myself sitting in the kitchen at 6:15 a.m. and watching Susan go through her morning routine. She was not going to get the day off, but she also had a much shorter commute and a car with 4-wheel drive. I had already been out and was quite confident that she would get to work without incident. At about 6:30, when she left, I had a choice to make — should I go back to bed or should I do some birdwatching? I didn’t go back to bed.
I got out of my work clothes, changed into some sweats then headed into the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. Then, with a particular sense of fun in the air, I went around the house and turned off all the lights. Once all electric lighting was off, I could see the blue glow of the stormy early-morning world outside. Then I walked over to the writing desk by my kitchen window, lit an oil lamp to illuminate the pages of my journal, and began my vigil. On mornings like this, I like to see who shows up first.
While I waited, it occurred to me that I’ve been writing about my kitchen window for over 10 winters. Year after year I’ve mentioned one thing after another that I’ve seen through the double-paned windows that look east onto my deck, but I’ve never really done justice to explaining what it all looks like.
This is something that I recently re-experienced when I read “Ravens in Winter,” by Bernd Heinrich, for the umpteenth time. He describes a cabin that he uses up in Maine, but I found myself wishing that I knew exactly what it looked like.
So, in the spirit of sharing, I present a photo of the writing desk by my kitchen window. On it you can see my January bird list on the left-hand side, my red journal for 2017 in the center of the frame, and a small dictionary sitting on top of one of my black journals to the right. The lamp in the center of the photo throws a warm yellow glow over the desk and the various curios I have collected over the years.
Outside you can even see the deck and some of its odd angles that I mentioned back in December. I took this photo on Jan. 14. Ten days later, when I sat down at my writing station, there was too much rain and ice on the windows to take photos, but I was able to see the morning’s first arrivals clearly enough.
At 6:55 a.m., in the blink of an eye, the deck was suddenly populated with white-throated sparrows, juncos, and American tree sparrows. These three species are always among the first five species seen on any particular morning, and they were quite keen on getting to the fresh seed that I had put out.
With nothing else to do, I sat at the window for two delightful hours. I managed to see 19 different species of birds and I am happy to say that the leucistic chickadee made another appearance. At 9 a.m. I decided to get up and turn my efforts to other pursuits.
There was still too much water on the windows for photography and there weren’t any new birds to look at anyway. I shall continue in my efforts, however, because on every morning at the window there is a chance of seeing something remarkable.
I hope you have your own window somewhere you too can sit in comfortable silence and gaze out upon the various wonders of the natural world.
Bill Danielson has worked for the National Park Service, the US Forest Service, and the Massachusetts State Parks. He has been a professional writer and nature photographer for 19 years and he also teaches high school biology and physics. Visit www.speakingofnature.com for more information, or go to Speaking of Nature on Facebook.