It was a perfect winter day. On the horizon, the clear blue sky was bordered by a narrow ruffle of puffy clouds. Eight inches of powdery snow covered the ground. The temperature was cool, but the warming sun pulled me outside. I dressed quickly, eager for whatever I might find in the fresh, crisp air.

I trudged out past the bird feeders and along the path which runs between the stone walls of the vegetable and daylily gardens, down the hill, and through the gate in the fence. I was headed, as always, for the swamp to see what I might find on this beautiful day. As I walked along the fence, I saw that I’d had company sometime before this morning’s light snowfall. There along the outside of the fence were the tracks of a bobcat. The new snow had partially filled them in, but the size and spacing convinced me that the big cat had been prowling along our fence once again. Whether it comes in the fine weather or not I don’t know. I suppose it might walk all around the swamp to get to this fence. I’ve no real way of knowing, but every winter, once the snow has fallen, I know by its tracks that it’s come across the ice to patrol here once again.

I followed the tracks down the hill and into the swamp, but a step or two quickly convinced me that the ice just wasn’t ready yet for my weight. As my eyes followed the cat’s tracks across the ice, I wished I’d thought to bring along the camera. The beavers’ lodge was so lovely with its cloak of snow. The orange-topped surveyor’s stake, which the beavers had appropriated to add to their home, was covered now with white and looked from here like just another branch.

I walked further along the swamp’s edge, and I suddenly startled a dozen doves. Off they flew with a call of alarm so unlike their normal mourning coo. Their explosion from the tree where they’d been resting masked a tap-tap-tapping sound which I’d not noticed before. Once the birds were gone, I followed the sound with my eyes until I found a hairy woodpecker on a tall, narrow tree.  

The woodpecker’s beautiful black and white coloration, as well as its large size, is always a marvel to me. This one, a female, lacked her mate’s brilliant red patch on the back of the head. Still, the wide white streak down the center of her back was perfectly balanced by the white and black stripes of her wings. Down the trunk she came, probing, listening, tapping here and there. After she worked her way down about five feet, she returned to her starting point and moved a few inches over to repeat the track. Down and up, tail pressed tightly against the smooth bark, head cocked to one side and then another before the strong bill drilled in to test the wood for succulent insects.

Where does she hide when the temperatures drop down into the low digits? I presume she has a favorite hole somewhere to snuggle down in. Today, in the brilliant sunshine making its way through the leafless trees, she stands out with clarity and beauty.

A few moments later, something startled the doves from their new resting place, and once more they burst forth with their danger call. A chickadee nearby picked up the alarm and warned others of my presence. “Chick–a-dee-dee-dee.” I read recently what scientists have learned: the number of “dees” a bird calls indicates the type of danger.

“Hey,” I called softly to it. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m the one who fills the feeder with sunflower hearts!”

I love the chickadees. Not only are they such lovely small beings, but they are the politest of birds at the feeders, taking only one seed before flying away to consume it. This one left me after a moment or two and headed back to the feeder for another morsel.

With a sigh, I realized that I had to follow suit. Reluctantly I left the world of beauty, of nature, of outside and returned to the house. “I’ll be back,” I promised both myself and the woods. I know I will. I’ll be beckoned again, and I’ll answer.

 By: Susan M. Poirier, Master Gardener