|A pair of house finches wait their turn at the feeder.|
We had a great little snowstorm yesterday. While the actual amount of snow that fell only amounted to about three inches, at times it was blowing around so thick and furious you'd have sworn you were in the
midst of an arctic blizzard. Absolutely delightful!
|Just part of the mixed feeder gang.|
The birds, of course, responded to the storm by ganging to the feeders and scattered corn in droves, noisily gorging themselves with the table manners of a herd of semi-starved teenagers scarfing up free pizzas. The first thing I did in the morning was to fill each seed basket to the brim, put out new blocks of suet, and toss scoops of cracked corn under the box elder, atop various stumps and rocks, along the walk, with even a bit on the windowsill by the dining table for the Carolina wren who likes to nibble while peering inside, as if wondering about that big interior space on the other side of the glass. No one goes unfed on the riverbank!
|A redbird hunkers in a riverbank hackberry.|
After breakfast Myladylove and I played hooky from church and headed to the tree farm to cut our Christmas tree. We're late this year by at least a week; we had every intention of getting it up and decorated the weekend after Thanksgiving. Alas, every free day recently has been allotted to dental and doctor visits, my recent outpatient procedure, or some other schedule-wrecking necessity.
Frankly, we're now both glad it worked out this way because yesterday's storm was the perfect time to go find a tree.The swirling, blowing snow, which blotted out the horizon in every direction, rendered the world beautiful beyond description. We took the long way to the tree farm, along little country roads which zigged and zagged through strips of woods, along jump-across brooks, over old iron bridges, and past barns and fields and meadows which could have occupied me photographically for months—each scene more magical than the next.
|A flicker forages amid the snowstorm.|
In fact, if we hadn't been on our Christmas tree mission, we'd have spent the entire day wandering those lovely rural byways along the western edge of Ohio, listening to carols on the radio—perhaps angling a bit into eastern Indiana to take in the snowfall's beauty amid a Hoosier light. There'd doubtless have been a stop in some mom-and-pop café for a burger, a mug of coffee, and—if luck was with us—a slice of gooseberry pie. Then, as twilight set in and night swiftly claimed the land, we'd have headed home through those little villages with the interesting names—Palestine, North Star, Savona, Eldorado, Ithaca, Winchester, West Sonora—taking time to admire the holiday decorations and lights, listening to the ancient music of the season, while a silver glow from the heavens above gleamed off the white blanket of new-fallen snow.