Through a window I can view subtle changes in the garden with
seasons and the weather as I complete my morning ritual. I notice when the
leaves hang on longer in an unusually warm autumn. And when the leaves have fallen I see a
distant knothole through tangled branches of sassafras and dogwood. It is a
hole in the bark of an oak where a branch used to be. I wonder what might live
or seek shelter in there. Throughout the winter months I search for clues in
the bare canopy. Could it be a downy woodpecker, a tufted titmouse or a
black-capped chickadee? I often see these birds as they perch in the sassafras
to hammer open a sunflower seed they have taken from the bird feeder.
When snow falls the trees have sleeves of white
and frozen fluff settles in crooks and elbows. As birds flitter about they
release clouds of white powder. Squirrels sit all puffed up against the cold, front
paws curled as in a muff, their tails a fur wrap held close to their backs. When
snow melts on a bright cold day in February, I notice the patterns in grainy
bark and swelling buds against a pale blue sky. During a rain shower in March,
gray-green lichen brings color and every twig glistens with water droplets.
In April there is a red blush in the canopy as maples bloom.
Mid-month a strong staccato warble can be heard. The house wren returns to
claim its territory amongst the flowering boughs of dogwood and lime green
sassafras blossom. The woodland is colored with unfurling leaves and the soft
browns, beiges and ochre of oak. I witness avian drama in May. A great crested
flycatcher dive-bombs the window from the sassafras tree. Is it fighting its
own reflection perhaps? The wren builds a nest in the nesting box. This fierce
little bird scolds marauding blue jays. Its mate is seen frequently returning
to the box with caterpillars in its beak to feed a growing family.
The leafy green of summer is a restful backdrop to my
ritual. The canopy closes in and blocks much of my view. The wren’s family
fledges and sometimes it makes another brood. It seems that the Carolina wren
sings more stridently once the house wren has flown south. The dogwood tree turns
first in fall. A mauve seeps through its leaves and grey twigs hold next year’s
flower buds, which remind me of Hershey’s Kisses. Peak fall color is heralded
with the oranges, pinks and yellows of sassafras leaves.
Often in the fall, the drone of a leaf blower
disturbs my meditation and I wonder why anyone would blast away leaves that
sustain such a beautiful natural cycle. At the very least, a view through a window affirms my faith in nature.
