There’s white ice now where white trumpeter swans bobbed next to Canada geese on blue-hued water only a week ago. The landscape is changing, and so is the air, colder now and riding the wind across open fields and through bare trees.
It’s cold. But there’s an allure in the briskness. It has something to do with the fascination of change and contrast, from a warm day and open water in late November to the piercing chill and first ice of early December.
Where are the swans today? As I wonder how many will fly south—some do overwinter on our open rivers—a flock of fast-winging ducks passes over on a flight due south. They fly in a V formation like Canada geese, but the ducks are constantly shifting positions in their V. Is it because they fly faster, 20 miles per hour or faster, than geese?
The ground is as hard as the thickening ice. It’s no longer warmed much by the sun, which is getting up late, going down early and staying well low in the southern sky. In another snowless December years ago, I remember the sun slanting in at such a low angle that my little dogs were backlit, outlined in a furry fringe of white against the brown grass.
The dogs paid no mind to the cold or the hard ground. Happy and seemingly incapable of complaining, the scent of a squirrel or rabbit was more important. The dogs are gone now, and I must accept the changes with no complaint. Always changes. Today I trace the sudden vastness and starkness of early winter. Wide open, cold spaces where nature takes its time to recharge. So should we.
I love it. Beautifully written and good information. I needed that today….irene