By the Window

For a few hours last weekend, the garden behind the little blue house in the village was a quiet province in the commonwealth of of winter. The snowfall was lovely, but the earth was warmer than the air, and I watched the fluffy carpet melt away as it reached the ground. The winter white stuff lingered in the ash trees for a brief interval and then faded away, leaving just a fleeting impression of the season's first snowfall - one of those vivid tableaux which lingers behind one's eyelids when the day has been spent and night comes tumbling down with its bright waning moon and its retinue of stars.

Strangely enough, there is still a fair bit of greenery on the buckthorn shrubs under the ash trees (perhaps because the shrubs are sheltered), and the scene at the moment is beguiling. My weathered old red bird feeder (one of many) oscillates back and forth in the wind, and there are flocks of happy chickadees making quick visits and practising their winter landings.

I shall have to be quiet for a few days longer. The virus which I picked up at a cancer clinic last week is still percolating through my gnarly old metabolism, and it is making life something of a misery at the moment. There are times when I would love to find a quiet cave somewhere and just fall asleep on a bed of oak leaves with the bears, but I do have a survival protocol which works rather well - hours are spent in a comfortable chair by the window with tea, camera and books close at hand, simply watching the season unfold. On nights when my fever has been running high, a great horned owl has been visiting the garden and perching in the ash trees for hours at a time. She is very good company.