It is a cold damp day today. A bit on the raw side, I set a wood fire in the stove to drive the damp chill away. On my walk today I investigated the vernal pools again. Last weekend, I found wood-frog eggs and some of those are hatching out today. When I lifted a mass up in my hand, it almost disintegrated and I could see miniature tadpoles within the mass. On the outer edges they were beginning to break free and swim away from my hand. I also found some salamander egg masses this time. They must have been laid some time during the week, even though it was pretty dry. Those masses were still quite solid and firm when I held them.

The trees are budding forth. I have noticed the changes on the hills when I drive into work. I used to attribute the first green to the poplars, but I have noticed that the black cherry has budded out first, and then the poplars. The hills reflect a very subtle reversal of the fall color scheme. The maples shed a glimmer of red and orange from their flowers, then their little leaves unfurling, and the beech buds shimmer golden as they begin to swell.

Yesterday, I took a close look at an emerging maple leaf, and was struck with the similarity of the human hand. I know, it has a palmate leaf shape, and I use that when helping children to learn to identify maples, by putting our hands over a leaf so they can see what that means. But yesterday, as I looked at the little wrinkly red leaf opening up, it looked so much like the wrinkly red hand of my children just when they were born. They say patterns in nature repeat themselves over and over. It points out to me how interconnected we are to the natural world around us.

Yesterday, I took my walk in the evening. It had been a hot day and after spending the morning in town, I returned home and labored in the gardens. It seems every winter the snow covers a nursery hotbed of dandelions and sheep sorrel. It can be a nice chore to try to eliminate them in the early spring before it is really time to do much planting. I enjoyed the hot sun on my back, listening to the birds, and checking out my ever-improving soil. And, the chickens enjoyed getting some fresh greens in their pen, as that is where I dumped the weeds.

On the walk through the woods to my daughter’s house , I discovered that the trailing arbutus had blossomed. It was my mother’s favorite spring flower, and yesterday was the anniversary of her death. I held still for a joyous moment of remembrance and honoring a woman that instilled much that is good in me, including my love of the natural world. I may have grumbled and complained as a teen when she had our entire lawn tilled so she could plant perennials, and groundcovers. Then in the next house the neighbor’s crumbled and complained when she let the back yard turn to a field of black-eyed susans.

I looked at the “new den” being dug. There seemed to be more activity there, yet it seemed less like the creation ofa home. Maybe the animal found a good cache of insects, or some other fancy treat. I will continue to monitor the changes that are going on.

I went into town early this morning to run errands, so no early morning walk. On my way home I went the route that takes me by the power-lines that cross over the Passy River. I have been coming home that way at least once a week to see if the osprey has returned. And, yes, today one was in the nest, looking large and white and quite content. For a second, I thought it was an eagle, until I refocused my gaze and realized I was looking at its chest, not its head.

This afternoon is warm and since the peepers and wood-frogs have been quite noisy in the evening I decided to check for egg masses. I didn’t find as many as I had hoped. In looking in five vernal pools, I found less than 20 egg masses. And the pool that had the most last year only had one. I do know it is a bit early, so hopefully There will be more. I did have to move one branch further into the water as it was already almost touching the bank and would begin to dry out if we don’t get rain. The pools are much smaller this year, which does not bode well for the amphibians that lay their eggs in them.

By the waterfall, I took off my boots and stuck my feet in the water. It is pretty cold, but I couldn't resist on a warm day like today. I do an annual May Day dunk, I think today has been my earliest touching of the water thus far.

I found a new den being dug. There was a scat nearby which looked like it belonged to a canine. Maybe a fox was working on this hole. Or maybe, a fox just decided to leave a mark on someone else’s spot. I also found some weasel scat along the river, and tracks of a raccoon. I walked along the water’s edge, and since I had on my high rubber boots, I periodically went into the water. The dog, which I was dragging along on its leash, did not like that part all that well. I also scared up three ducks when rounding a bend in the river. All in all it was a fairly eventful walk this afternoon.

Today, while I was still lying in bed, the phoebe landed on the lilac just outside the window. Even though one of my neighbors has seen it already this spring, this morning was my first visit from it. It was nice to get such a morning welcome; to not only hear it but to see it while first awakening. The sun is shining after a day and night of cold rain.

I went out last night looking for salamanders, although I must admit it was a half-hearted search. I did not put on my rubber boots, but walked along the edge of my driveway where the vernal pools come up close. Yes that sounds horrific, like someone had put the driveway in where they shouldn’t; and that is exactly what happened. The previous owner and builder of my home put the driveway through the wetlands. I am trying to keep them alive and well, but last night’s walk was one advantage I have of his indiscretion. I did not see any salamanders, but heard wood-frogs and peepers. Earlier in the evening when it was still light, I could see the water moving as the frogs dropped down to hide, so I knew there were quite a few .

I did the closer part of the loop today. Usually I can block out the sounds of human activity, but this morning the sound of heavy equipment was too noticeable from one of the gravel pits across the river. I am not sure which one, sound travels pretty far and it was annoying to say the least this morning. The dog and I heard the flock of turkeys that inhabit the woods near here. It sounded like they were in the garden next door. We also came across a clump of discarded winter hair from a deer. It looked as if I might have grabbed a chunk and deposited it in the path for an unsuspecting dog to find. The dog really did enjoy sniffing his treasure.

Yesterday, I went for a guided nature walk led by a friend of mine. It was at some property in the neighboring town. The land had been heavily logged within the last fifteen years or so, and left looking pretty worn and sad. Then a group bought it and turned it into a non-profit permaculture education center. The land is being restored, but not with the same values that I have. I could be judgmental here, but will choose not to be. Let’s just suffice it to say that I don’t agree with portions of the permaculture ideology which in my mind puts humans at the fore. I don’t think we should always be in the forefront.

The theme of the walk was water. So at one point the leader had us all stop and he spoke to us about the importance of water, how our bodies are not a solid mass of muscle and bone, but really a fluid vessel 90% water. Our skin keeps us from drying out. He then held an imaginary goblet and asked us all to make a toast to water; he to the intricacy of a snowflake, I to the refraction of light in a rain drop, others to the connectivity of water and such. It is a nice thing to stop and take stock of what there is around us, how we depend on it, not only for our existence, but also for the spirituality connected to it. I realized it is my daily walk along the river that helps keep me sane in this ever insane world.

He also sent us on a quest by a small pool of water in a slow stream for the upside down tree. After a few minutes of many adults looking and NOT finding it, he pointed out the reflection, to again remind us to look beyond what he called the ordinary. When a group of children arrived, I told my friend to ask them. Within a minute one of the children said, oh you mean the reflection? A young mind was still able to look beyond the ordinary—or to see something further than what our adult minds had blacked out.

This morning I awoke to the sun shining through the trees on the eastern horizon. A cloud bank was moving in from the west. Fro a brief moment the tops of the western trees were gilded with that early morning glow. The maples bedecked in their red blossom glowed a luminous orange, the pines a silvery green, and the oaks a gold.
By the time I went for my walk the clouds had overtaken the entire sky. Sometimes a clouded sky makes for better clarity on the ground; there is not the harshness of the sun, nor the glare when facing into it. It was quiet in the woods today. Not much bird song, until one moment when I stopped below a dead pine trunk and heard a robin burst forth in gleeful song. I was expecting a moment of stillness when I stopped, but that stillness was shattered by joy and glee. I have been stressed and somber lately; I thank that robin for reminding me to be joyful.

It is still chilly in the mornings, and I walked quickly, in part because I was cold, in part because I was invited to have breakfast with my daughter upon returning from the walk. I liked the idea of spending some time talking with her. The dog and I did flush a partridge, we see many on our walks—or maybe we see a few many times. It is looking like the beaver are deciding not to rebuild their dams in one of the places they had one last summer. The winter’s ice and high water have broken all three. Tonight I should walk down to the swimming hole to see if they are still around that much. There are still no green shoots of grass for them to forage. They must be eating what they have stored or have found small saplings to nibble on. I don’t see any signs of new chewings on my loop, I will need to explore further away to see where they are. Sounds like a walk for this weekend.

This morning I walked in a world of white. It seemed as if overnight my enclave became a tunnel of grey and white. The little snow we had was wet and sticky, transforming every tree, branch and twig into white be-decked fairies. Even the silken strand of a misguided insect that came out during last week’s heat was clothed in the crystals of snow

It was quiet, as I walked through the tunnels left by saplings bending over the trail. At times I twisted, stooped and almost crawled to avoid shedding snow onto my back. As I reached the river, I could see the water reflecting the silvery gray of the morning sky. Even the waterfall seemed to have hushed in this moment of winter’s return. Though in reality, it has already retreated in volume to almost early summer levels. At another bend in the river where the water runs slow and almost still, the reflections of the opposite bank looked up at me in reverse. I could see the dark underside of the bank, where water has cut under the roots and soil, then the whiteness of snow, then the green and white filigree of the evergreens, then the grey of the sky. In silence I looked at this underworld, a world at my feet, wondering how to get in. Is it the world of Hades, the world in which Persephone descended to re-emerge when her mother Demeter brought her back? It seemed so alluring and peaceful, looking into that still reflection. Why do we fear that altered space? It reminded me of the pull of the sirens years ago when I stood high on a cliff off the rocky shores of Maine. I could have jumped to land in the beauty of the surf and rock below.

I was bummed when I got out of my meeting and realized I would get home too late. Ah well, another night to go look for the woodcock. I did however see a frog crossing my driveway. I braked and stalled the car in my excitement and concern for hitting it. He continued across the drive within the frame of my headlights and entered into the vernal pool that is right on the side. I got out the BIG flashlight and wandered along the side of the drive checking out the pools. They are like a reverse archipelago of islands around my property. I did not see the frog, or any others, but I did hear one peeper, and the woodcock did do one flight dance while I was out. I guess I could have gone to look for the bird with the flashlight, but other creatures were attracting my interest.
This morning, I went out a bit earlier than I have been. As I was cutting through the woods to get the dog, a white but spotting brown, hare belted down the path toward me. We were both taken aback with our inadvertent near collision. But the rabbit scooted off and left me in its dust. The geese were honking profusely from the beaver pond, and a murder of crows flew overhead. The dog seemed to be very intent on smells, that for a while I could not discern. Then I got a whiff of that telltale musky smell of skunk, which must have passed by at some point not long before. Near the falls, I heard a rustle, and saw two deer cross the path, followed by three more. I continued to hear noises on the left from where the group had emerged, but did not see the other or others, until I took the turn that would take me along the river back to the house. I got one very small glimpse of movement, and that was all. I know I have mentioned not seeing deer tracks in the snow, and to keep me honest they waited to come around again after the snow was gone. If I had taken the time to look, I probably could have found their tracks in the mud, but I had the day’s obligations ahead of me.

I got home from work utterly exhausted. So exhausted, in fact, that I decided to cook pasta rather than rice so I wouldn’t have to measure the water. But I still had to shut the chickens in for the night, so I went out just a bit before dusk. Joy of joys, I heard the wonderful flutter of the woodcock in my neighbor’s field. Exhaustion forgotten, I went over and listened to three rounds of its courtship calls. It sits on the ground puffs out its chest and sends out a loud peent. Then it flies in a rapid spiral high into the air, out of sight. Soon it falls to the ground with a soprano sound of wings fluttering in the wind, to then land and begin again. It usually lands in about the same place, so we humans that want to witness it can oft times run to where we heard the peent and sit until it lands nearby. However, I seem to be around smart woodcock as they will not land near me. I once went out with my sister and some of her naturalist friends. We hunkered down, pinpointed the call and when it flew we all ran to the spot. When the bird landed we heard its peent, right where we had been; it had outwitted us for sure. Tomorrow, I will go out again, I have a meeting but hope I can make it before it is too dark to be able to see the woodcock in flight.

Spring is coming. I have begun to hear geese flying in overhead to the small beaver pond across the road and on Saturday evening the first red-winged black birds. Even though I did not write yesterday, I did get out in the woods twice. I went early in the morning with the dog. I wore a sweatshirt, vest and gloves. Later in the day I walked over to get the dog, and went out again, that time in a sleeveless shirt, although I still wore the rubber boots to keep my feet dry and out of what snow and ice remains in the shadiest parts of the path. Looking up into the tree tops, I noticed the buds beginning to swell and a definite tint of red on the maples. Soon they will be blooming. On my second walk I ventured off the trail to check the vernal pools; all are still covered in ice, although the ice is shrinking quickly. I think the next rain will bring a salamander migration. I am prepared this year, I bought a big flashlight! Usually I forget and go out with a flashlight which is losing its battery power and can’t see much of anything. My sister, in Western Massachusetts, has already witnessed the big night. She went out last Thursday with friends and had 40-50 salamanders congressing at her feet. For those that don’t know, congressing means mating.
This morning, it was chilly and I was a little later than usual, so I turned it into a fast paced walk. Just above the waterfall, I looked up to see the beaver on the bank. He quickly headed into the water and swam until the dog moved. At that point he slapped his tail and dove.
I have some family history regarding the Hudson River painter Thomas Cole, and on these last three walks the lighting was just so that I could not help but think that I was walking in one of his paintings. I felt the spirit of both the land and of “God”. Although I would not say I am a believer in God in the usual sense, I do believe there is something spiritual about the world something much greater than me and all the human inhabitants that live in it.

I woke at sunrise this morning; Gus (the dog) woke me in his dire need to relieve himself. I donned coat and boots and took him out. The sky was clearing from east to west, so the sun came up in front of a light blue. Yet the clouds above reflected the golden orange hue of the sun on their lower edge, rising to a solid gray. Even as I watched it changed drastically as the cloud cover dissipated and the orange turned to yellow then white. Morning has broken.

This morning’s walk was quite lovely. It had rained yesterday and I guess some during the night. Many of the branches held diamond clusters of rain drops on their tips. –I find myself using man made similes; the rain like diamonds, the tracks like roads, the beech leaves rustling like rain sticks. Yet really I want to reverse the simile. What makes a diamond beautiful? Man has cut it so that it reflects light like a raindrop in the early morning sun. I want to rejoice in the basics and the beauty in the simplest of form, not in man-made complexity.

The ground was quiet, what with the damp leaves and most of the crunchy snow cover gone. The dog and I were able to move quietly. I stooped to investigate an old den, which seemed to have no activity until one day just after the last snowfall. Tracks went in and then out again. They looked like they could possibly have been a fox, investigating. Today, I again saw nothing; as I stood up I looked toward an old oak by the river and there staring at me was a rather small weasel. I could only see its face and front half of its body. Its face and ears were a deep chocolate brown and his legs and chest a russet brown. It stood there, sniffing and peering at us, trying to decipher what we were. Then it curled its body around and disappeared down the bank. I waited to see if it would reemerge, either in the water or further down the bank, but it didn’t. I walked to the oak and on the opposite side saw a hole in the trunk, which I am sure would have easily fit that little creature. I will investigate that tree again one day, maybe without the dog in tow.

I walked along the very edge of the river from then on. I was about ten or fifteen feet from the path, but just the slightest change brought on a new perspective. I was level with the river instead of up on the bank; it seemed wilder, richer and larger while I was up close and personal. At times I needed to skirt ice chunks for fear they would break or send me slipping into the water. Soon, I will be skirting the river more often in search of spring flowers and fiddleheads.

Last night it snowed again. It was less than an inch, but the world is shrouded in white again. I must be a creature of winter because I felt my heart lift when I went out for my walk. The last few days , I have been deep in thought while walking. My mind has been dragging in the mud, seeing only the gray of the world. I hadn’t even been noticing the changes in the river.
This morning, I noticed that all the ice is gone from the river. It has been noisy, as it rages over the rocks and the small falls that I walk by. In fact it is noisy enough that I can hear the falls from the house. From what I can tell the three beaver dams seem to have been torn asunder by the ice and water. I still question why the beavers moved over here from the small stream and pond they had for years across the road; these woods do not have small tasty saplings of poplar or alder. These are relatively mature oak and conifer woods. I realize the y consumed most of the poplar, and maybe their population increased such that some of the members of the family had to move out and on to new pastures, or in this case new waters. Maybe it takes a few years for them to find that perfect spot, or maybe like some children, they don’t want to move too far from home.

Yesterday, the CC group did boundary work on Northern Pond. This year we pushed working on it until it was almost too late in the winter. We have had a very mild winter, and in the beginning it never got cold enough to freeze, or snow to use snowshoes to get in. We have a lot of wetlands to cross, and a couple of streams. Yesterday, the edges of the wetland were beginning to thaw, where the sun warmed it and the rain and melt water dribbled in. But we were able to cross. At the stream, one of us fell in, and had to return home, the elements had begun to claim our membership….
In some places it was difficult to find the old blazes, but by siting the line, and a bit of exploration we would ultimately find an old blaze. At one point the line goes over a major rock outcropping; where some geologic event either heaved up rock or carved earth down. I do not profess to know geology. Amongst the crannies, I notice a huge pile of porcupine scat, and was pleased to know that the area is still a popular denning site. Years ago, I had taken a picture of a porcupine sleeping with its tail out to the world, its perfect defense against predators. I noticed a hemlock with many chewed twigs on the ground and a poplar with bark chewed down to the cambium layer.
We continued on through woods and wetland. The day was warm, the sun clear and bright. I found myself shutting out the other people and focusing on the silence of the woods, the stillness, at the expanse and at the minute. It is always in the woods where I can breathe deep and feel both the magnitude of the earth and my tiny presence to the fullest

On Tuesday it was nine degrees when I took my morning walk. The cold seemed to seep right through me. During February’s full moon, I thought the deep cold would be done for the winter, but I was mistaken. I walked quickly to protect my face from the cold and wind. I noticed lots of hare tracks. I have noticed there have been some regularly travelled pathways. These were usually straighter and more direct. While the singular tracks took a more meandering approach, I supposed in search of accessible buds and twigs. One animal track I didn’t see much of this winter was deer. I know they are around; I saw three last fall on an early morning walk, they browse down my blueberry bushes and walk through the garden in the summer. Maybe they winter on the other side of the river. From this side the woods look to have more conifers, than what I have on my side.
On Thursday the high temperature was 58. In the morning, I could smell the earth: rich and brown and musky. It was such a wonderful smell to uphold. The river was beginning to break up; ice was jamming where there was shade thus keeping the ice solid all the way across the river. The sound of the waterfall was strong enough for me to hear from my house; --it is maybe a third of a mile away. When I arrived at the falls, the normal narrow flow of water was spread all across the rock ledge.
Today, I took the dog, and we walked to the falls. Again the river was loud, but my footfalls, on crunchy ice were even louder. Almost all of the ice is gone, and the river runs high. The woods only have snow under the shade of trees, on northern sides of hillocks, and where there were drifts. The vernal pools, though still frozen are turning brown and the soil around them warms and the tannic acid from the leaves seeps in to them. Soon they will be clear. Spring is truly coming.

Last night, I took the dog for a walk in the moonlight. There was a light cover of cloud, but the moon and the white of the snow gave enough light for easy walking. Periodically, the clouds moved completely aside and then the deep shadows of the trees loomed on the ground around me. My night-time walks are generally up the driveway, about an eighth of a mile, to the road. Last night, at the head of the drive, I turned left and walked the road to the neighboring farm’s field. There I could see a few of the humps of snow laden hay-bales, the large round kind, and the hay rake tilted toward the sky, as if resting right where it had finished its late summer harvest. I am not sure why the farmers didn’t bring it in, except that maybe they are still working on the interior of the barn. The farmers are two brothers, who bought this farm from an aging and retired farmer. It had been years since the previous farmer had done much and both the buildings and fields were in dire need of restoration. The brothers and their wives have been working hard at reviving an old enterprise, and it is beginning to show. It is heartening to see that an old way of life is being reborn, that people still care, and are becoming stewards.
This morning, it was snowing again, very gently and quietly, when we went out. At the end of this week my dog-sitting duties will be over. I wonder if I will take the time to venture out just for myself. I hope I can keep up this habit. It is so restorative to gaze up at the night sky, or walk amongst the trees in the early morning.

This morning while I was sitting at the dining table looking out at the falling snow, I noticed a squirrel digging into the snow. While I was eating my breakfast of granola and nuts and dried fruit, the squirrel was looking for his. Later, I took a few walnuts in the shell and put them in the little cache hole the squirrel made. I also finally met face to face the stray cat that I occasionally see running quickly away when I open the door. Months ago, when the water in a five gallon bucket started to freeze, I turned it on its side and said I would put it away…eventually. Well, it has made a nice little cave for the cat. As I rounded the side of the house I could see into the bucket and there it was all curled up against the cold and snow. I felt for it, too, and went in to get some dry dog-food and left it in the empty bucket, hoping it would come back.
The dog and I walked the full loop this morning. During the walk the snow unfroze and came down as a light rain. The quality of light changed; the wetness from the rain made the trees darker and more foreboding and substantial. The dog Gus had moments of terror at the sight of a dark tree stump, and would not move forward; I had to drag him along until the stump was behind us.
I filled out my seed order for the garden. It was a nice diversion on this dismal March day. I never seem to plant all the seeds each year, so always have left overs, yet not enough for a full planting. I am also buying from a different seed company, so instead of having packets sold by the ounce or pound, this company sells by the packet and sometimes says how many seeds are in the packet. Who knows how much I will over-buy or under-buy this year? Each order is an exciting adventure, to be followed by the excitement of planting and watching the crop come up. I get less excited as the summer progresses and I have to tend with weeds and processing. I like, best, the planning stages of things; it portends greatness for the future, and leaves us with our hopes and dreams still in tact.
We haven't yet had to deal with the trials of life and any failures that may sneak up on us.

It is snowing today. March roars and shakes its lion’s head and duff and dander fall white upon the earth. I have been out walking twice today. Early this morning I took the dog and we headed out. We came upon a curve in the road and I looked up to see two neighbor dogs, a shepherd and a pit-bull. I do not know these dogs, but I do know something of their owner, and I did not feel so good. They saw me though and turned and ran. I decided to continue my walk, but found a good stick to bring with me. I have not felt this discomfort when I have watched a coyote parallel my path through the fields, nor when I saw the markings of bears in woods in western Mass. Wild would choose to flee, but maybe not these dogs bred by man. I thought of a movie I watched not too long ago called “The Grey”. It is a movie of man pitted against the elements, but mostly against a pack of wolves. I chuckled at the running joke my friend and I now have from the repeated line of “Don’t be afraid”. What did I fear in this moment? I admit the walk was clouded with a different feeling and I never felt those moments of exaltation.

I went out again a few hours ago. The snow was coming down hard. Trees were covered and at times I needed to bend down under the laden branches of the hemlocks and pines. The woods were almost silent. It took a few moments of being still before I could notice a few calls from birds, the tzzz of a kinglet, was basically all that I heard, and that only in the deepest of the hemlocks. Walking by the beech with its dressing of dry golden leaves the sound of the snow was that of a rain-stick tilting slowly and gently. Or, is the sound of a rain-stick that of snow falling on the dry leaves of beech.

I have enjoyed this day. Reading, painting, writing, walking. So in a way I did get yesterday’s extra day.

Leap Day

It is Thursday, but I am taking the time to enter yesterday’s piece. I was home later than usual last night and didn’t get around to posting.
Leap day, I heard on the radio it is a day used to calibrate us with nature’s rhythm. Maybe I will use this day to return to nature.

Glints of yellow
As the goldfinch
Slowly changes its attire
From winter into spring
To spite the cold
The summer’s glittering gold.

12 degrees this morning. Gus, the dog, and I walked the half loop again this morning, in the reverse direction; west through the woods, then east along the river. Last night’s moisture lays silver, frozen on branch and twig; shimmering where the sun rises above the pine. I was not dressed for the temperature. I walked fast and did not stop. Yet, still, the morning crept inside me bringing me to that moment of awe in the quiet still cold.

returning

I have not written in a very long time. Life happens, so I can just let that go. But I have taken a trip to the west and for reasons not to be discussed here I am now feeling the need to write. I need to find something to ground me, so I think that if I decide to write, maybe I will pay attention more closely again and find that I can have this mix of flight and being grounded at the same time. So I hope to continue, to write about what I see and feel around me, and to pay attention to nature and what keeps me.

Last night, it snowed a gentle quiet snow. It was, just a little, but enough to make the world fresh and white.

Right now, I have the luxury, or maybe the impetus, of dog sitting again. Having another creature to tend, take out to the bathroom, to exercise gives me an added push to get out, where I might instead have chosen to stay in and drink another cup of coffee.
We were out at 7:30 this morning; walking half the loop. The sun was rising over the stand of pines on the other side of the river. Tracks galore, they tell a story as beautifully as braille or the dots and dashes of a telegraph wire, only I do not know the language. I know that I followed the snow shoe hare--two dots two dashes, and the mouse-- long line paralleled on either side by repeating dots. I think I saw a coyote--claws on the toes. I continue to look for signs of the neighboring bobcat, and occasionally I think I see its tracks, maybe even this morning.

I followed the river west so the sun was behind me. Sporadically the breeze puffed snow off the branches, but it wasn’t until I turned east again that I witnessed the gossamer flight of snowy eldils reflecting their spirit voices in a silver hue.