A Winter Discontent

I have to admit, it's getting rather difficult to find pretty things on the Greenway lately. Everything is shades of washed-out brown, with dry stems swept to the ground by wind, snow and rain. Even the birds are drably colored (the occasional cardinal notwithstanding): chickadees and juncos in shades of gray and white, Canada geese in black and tan, winter goldfinches in a dirty olive.

The verdant leaves and bright flowers are long gone. The most vivid colors at the moment, sadly, seem to be the poo bags tossed into the Greenway basins and tree branches by thoughtless dog owners. It is a time ripe for despair, long months of cold winter ahead before the first brave botanical pioneers reappear in spring.

It helps to remind myself that what was, will be again. Spring follows winter as inevitably as day follows night. I look out over the seemingly lifeless land and remember the waves of goldenrod not too long ago, and the butterfly weed before that.

I think of the millions of seeds produced on the Greenway last summer, and wonder how many found their way to a hospitable place where they can put down roots and spend coming years blooming and producing seeds of their own. I imagine roots below even now storing energy and preparing for the day the sun's rays warm the ground and lengthen the days enough to prompt the first tender shoot to burst through crumbling soil.

Until then, I learn to, if not relish the crisp air freezing my eyeballs in the pre-dawn gloom, at least appreciate the contrast a few short months can make. To see the tiny shards of frost on the grass glittering in the moonlight and realize such beauty would be impossible in the comfort of summer.

Am I Tougher Than a Chickadee?

No. No, I'm not.

Queen Anne's Lace

I trudged along the Greenway on a recent dreary morning, bundled up in a puffy coat with a hat pulled down over my ears, hoping for a colorful sunrise but seeing only bleak gray sky. There wasn't even a glitter of frost to lend a festive atmosphere. The reluctant dog kept trying to turn back towards his cozy, centrally-heated den, only to be tugged back along the trail. "Get used to it," I mutter, half to him and half to myself.

Gray-headed Coneflower

Then from brush to the north comes the buzzy dee dee dee of our chickadee friends. Their tiny, energetic bodies zip across the trail and flit among the branches of a bare tree. Farther along the trail a cardinal is centered against a dry brown backdrop, reminding me wistfully of the small crimson spot centered in an umbel Queen Anne's Lace from warmer times. The Queen Anne's Lace, soft and elegant no more, has shriveled to a skeletal claw around a nest of seeds. Nearby are some Gray-headed Coneflower, the dignified rounded seed heads half-eaten by goldfinches.

It's amazing and humbling to contemplate the small feathered beings that survive our harshest winters with just a feathered coat and whatever cover they can find among the dry leaves and grasses. Chickadees and goldfinches weigh less than an ounce--about as much as three quarters. House sparrows and Dark-eyed juncos weigh just a bit more, still only around one ounce. Yet they are adapted to survive both the blistering heat of midsummer and the bone-chilling lows of winter.

There's a cardinal in there somewhere.

Sure, I tend to eat constantly in the winter and increase my intake of fatty foods. I minimize bare skin exposed to the elements, and seek shelter from the wind and snow. I'm not as active as during the warmer months. So I suppose we share many strategies for getting through the winter with our tiny feathered friends.

I sometimes wonder, though, if the hardy chickadees ever titter to each other about the wimpy, runny-nosed humans hustling about in bundles of clothing while the birds spend night after bone-chilling night outside with just the feathers on their backs. 

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough without ever having felt sorry for itself.
-  D.H. Lawrence