Then He Flew

Cozy

Addendum: Tomorrow night is the 3rd annual Cabin Fever Spelling Bee, at which yours truly, along with dear ole dad and a whole bunch of other ne’er-do-wells, will compete for bragging rights. It’s a benefit for the Kellogg Hubbard Library. Hilarity has been known to ensue. Get your tickets here! 

Early this morning I came upon a snowy owl dining on one of our ducks. Upon my approach, he swooped into the low branch of a nearby hemlock. I could hear the soft whoosh of his glide. We watched one another for 30 seconds or more, and I called to Penny and the boys, who were bustling about the barn, but I dared not raise my voice high, and they did not hear me. So it was just the owl and me and the dead duck.

Then he flew.

•    •    •

It was ten below again this morning. I have come to view the cold as a temporary installation of performance art, and as is so often the case, I am struck by how profoundly this simple shift of perspective has altered my relationship to forces beyond my control. Truth is, we are living through something historic – the coldest February on record, and the second-coldest month ever recorded in Vermont, which is pretty badass, considering that February is typically the month that tips into spring. Already, I am relishing the image of myself balancing a grandchild on each knee, regaling them with tales of the winter of ’15, the one in which the snow fell for 64 days straight, the temperature didn’t rise above 40 below until the middle of April, and I bare-handedly defended our ducks from a pack of marauding wolves.

Of course, my tenuous acceptance of the cold is aided by the fact that we are well provisioned. We still have dry firewood, and I’m increasingly optimistic that scavenging will remain unnecessary (ok, so I have been mixing a bit of sugaring wood into the remaining reserves). No water lines have frozen, a testament to our savvy engineering  dumb luck when building this place. All the animals (singular duck excepted) are in fine fettle, and our stores of hay are plentiful. And even this morning, cold as it is, carries that particular expectation of spring, the sun rising early and high enough that when I arrived at the barn to tell Penny about the owl, she and Pip were awash in light. I stood quiet for a moment before I spoke, listening to the metronomic sound of milk accumulating in the pail.

•    •     •

Not sure what happened, but I’ve picked up a lot of new readers over the past week or so. Actually, my traffic has almost doubled, though I’m sure it will settle down again. Anyway. For those new to this space, I would like to humbly point you to the Generosity Enabler icon (see below or in the righthand margin of the home page).

As always, this space remains free of advertisements and any expectation of financial recompense. That said, Penny and I both put a great deal of effort into our work here (all the photos are hers) and believe it has value. If you agree, and if you posses the means to contribute, and if you are inclined to do so, please know that your support is greatly appreciated.

Thank you.