Thursday, January 10, 2008
Morning Thanks--Owls in fresh snow
This morning, when I stepped outside, I was greeted by a new snowfall, something out of Currier and Ives, gentle as a song.
In a small town, new snow mutes everything, enclosing the neighborhood in alabaster fur, everything softly hidden like a child's hands in a muff, a comforting kind of silence.
It’s January, and the first snow is far behind us. By this time of year, new snow isn’t yet tedious, a bother, although in another month it will be. This morning everything is white and pure once again, a joy. Right now, very early in the morning, nothing moves.
The tracks of some stray cat led from our back door to the garage and out again—the only sense of life around me.
But through the darkness just now I listened to the gentle baritone of some local owl in a tree not far away, a soft drumming sound, as meditational as anything I know of, the only sound in a day that hasn’t yet awakened.
Like Thoreau, this morning, out there in the muted world of fresh new snow, I rejoice that there are owls.