Winter, Sometimes a Wonderland

Today is one of those rare winter days where the air is dry enough that walking is enjoyable.

The sky is an intense blue, clear with only a sparing wisp of cloud to the north over Fredericton. There has been so little breeze in the woods that the firs and spruce still hold the snow from Tuesday night.

In the clearing where there has been drifting, the snow has taken on the patterns of sand washed in wind and wave, gentle ripples and dimples on the sparkling surface.

Running zigzag across the drive and into the browse, is the chaotic meandering prints of the many snowshoe hare. The very same marauding denizen of the summer garden, the very same that has destroyed all hope of springtime tulip blooms, and keeps the pole beans, which have the ability to reach heights over 30 feet, moderately stunted well into summer.

The red fox was on the prowl early this morning, the delicate foot prints, carefully placed in the snow indicate that it was on the hunt for the hare or perhaps it was partridge whose print was also visible in various locales.

The poor partridge, a bird which has the inclination to hide in the lowest limbs of the evergreens during a snow, can easily become entombed in a snowfall that, if heavy enough, can not dig itself out from under, the frozen remains are there for the spring cleaning by the ravens and turkey vultures that are becoming more plentiful as the years pass. The remaining partridge are the fortunate ones who go to produce sizable broods of cute little chicks hidden in the nests against fallen logs. Who, when you stumble upon the area, are then seen dragging the 'broken wing' well away from the nest site.

Upon closer inspection of the trails in the snow, there is the sign of the red squirrel, tiny clawed paw prints, then a tunnel dug into the snowbank, which leads to some yet undiscovered maze and likely a stash of forgotten food.

The area around the bird feeder is active, chickadees and nuthatches dashing in and out, a quiet cacophony of chirps and whirs, grabbing the best sunflower seeds and flying into the snarl of the sleeping wisteria vine and returning for more. All the while ignoring the whistle of the grey jays and the screech of the blues whose when provoked by each other can become quite rowdy leaving pulled feathers for the collecting.

It's time to feed them all again and the tamer red squirrels, who will come when you call "George", are expecting a treat of bread with peanut butter. A prized treat, that if they are not quick to take it, is lost to the jays, who will inevitably follow the reds to see where it is going to be hidden and will steal it away, if given even half a chance.

6 February 2009
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