According to local weather reports, it's snowing at this very moment practically everywhere but here along the river. I've not yet witnessed a single falling flake with my own eyes…and I've been looking. There is, however, a bit of snow on the ground, the lightest of dustings, just enough to add some white to the raked piles of sycamore leaves I hadn't gotten around to hauling to the mulch pile before I got sick. Still, I've seen plenty of frosts do a better job covering the ground with white.
As I write, the temperature stands at 27˚F, which is only marginally warmer than it was when I went out in the feeble dawn light to feed the loudmouthed ducks their scoops of cracked corn. Actually, it's the white ducks who cut such a rusty; the mallards are more polite, less demanding—though just are ready for breakfast.
The river looks wintery today, falling snow or not—greenish-blue, lots of grays, a pewter sky and all the leaning sycamores whiter than any icicle. There are baubles of ice in the shallows—bits and pieces formed on leaves and weed stems. Some mid-riffle sticks and bits of debris wear an icy overcoat. There are a few of what I call "ice bells" along the bank.
The birds are busy working the feeders, perhaps twenty species all told. A nice variety, though nothing unusual. I can count seven male cardinals sitting in the same small tree, as brilliant as a handful of rubies flung against the chilled pale backdrop of winter. Lovely.
The weather folks say there's a 40 percent chance of snow all day. I'd like to see a bit—the actuality rather than just the aftermath. My plans are to build a fire, finish decorating the Christmas tree, and catch up with some indoor chores. I'm still not completely over whatever I had, still fighting a persistent cough. Falling snow would finish the overall mood of a quite, snug, riverbank Monday rather nicely, don't you think?
