We are wild for a moment on a Sunday morning when no one is out. Cross-legged and invisible in a throne of tall grass, the sphinx dog lies beside us, head up and scenting. Witches broom and dog-hair pine. The thin warmth of January’s southern sun. The vanilla cologne of warming ponderosa.
There’s so much to do: walk the gentle contours of the land, notice the squirrel’s new dray, and see where old snow has pooled. We inspect our drying firewood, its cross-hatched ends ready for the axe. We herald the arrival of crows, insolent and remote in the firs’ highest branches.
The crows are winter birds. They see no reason for southern escape. Like them, we appreciate this season of sleep. At night we’re like beams beneath our feather comforter. In the morning we soften in the warmth of our woodstove. We welcome the day’s slanty light, the passing storms, the chance to be still and let the world come to us on the wind.