9 Jan 14
Wind howls from the west. The powder-fine snow that fell over night rises like a spectral conjured from the ground in swirls of white that undulate. Snow lifts from the bare branches, ghosts, and disappears into the field.

Cardinals, dark-eyed juncos and sparrows cling to the tips of the Spicebush. A blue jay bobs from the cottonwood tree, and calls more birds to the feeder. A hawk swooped in, the sound of his wings audible through the window. His hunt a failure, he paused in the Sycamore tree, scattering the songbirds.