Winter

The fields below Saddle Ridge have been beaten flat by December's cold and the Arctic blasts; and, now, Winter's continued cold only makes matters worse.

In town, my lawn resembles the fields below Saddle Ridge. Outside the city, stubble rows of picked fields run off to the wood lines, their bounties taken and stored. Furred things are in their burrows. The hawk is still and patient on his branch.

Man and land are drawn in upon themselves, counting the days, waiting it out. Winter is a season of punishing inclinations - sometimes a foe to be reckoned with, no doubt of that. But winter is also a matter of viewpoint.

One eye sees in the barren fields below Saddle Ridge the sadness of things ended or ending. Another, less troubled eye sees only the land at rest. One eye finds the leafless woods stark and unlovely. Another likes to consider that mid-Winter is nearer and the next flowering of dogwood and rosebud is closer than August will ever be. And, where the dormant lawn is concerned, not all souls cherish equally the clatter of the power mower engine.

Winter chills. But Winter also clarifies. In these silent and ordered days, the pattern of life is somehow plainer to be seen. Is the pattern immutable, or can it be changed?

In any case, the point is not to love winter, but to live with it. Is there really any choice? Did wishing every bring April in January or turn spinach into ice cream? The hawk on his branch knows that.

You and I could do worse for a model.

No whining from him, just the long patient stare of that golden eye. He will take whatever tomorrow brings him. That might easily be another blizzard. But on the other hand, his mind tells him, it could just as easily be a mouse.