Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace...#phenology

It's cold. It's cloudy. It's cold and cloudy like a broken record that keeps repeating. On the other hand---there's now something like two dozen or so goldfinches that erupt from the ground under the thistle feeder each time we let one of the dogs out. Disconcerting, but encouraging.

finches in February

Photo by J. Harrington

We'll diligently watch for color changes in the Winter-drab plumages of the finches. None noticeable yet, but we hope to see come brighter yellow feathers on their heads come February. There've been noticing more and more crows flying around the past few days and heard some croaking at each other this morning. It'll likely be March before they start nesting. But, although we haven't yet heard any, the black-capped chickadee's two-note Spring song (Fee-Bee), should become audible over next month or so. February also brings us Black History Month as well as Ground Hog Day, Minnesota Precinct Caucuses, and Valentine's Day.

the crows have returned

Photo by J. Harrington

All in all, we find that February is mostly good as a transition from the end of Winter toward the beginning of Spring. Fortunately, it's the shortest month of the year. Good for day-dreaming about warmer weather, bud burst, nestlings and open water, among other seasonal fantasies. We can't quite figure out how our tendency, at this time of year, to look toward future events fits with a zen emphasis to "be here now." We're focused, as much as we can be now, on what we want to do at some other time. We don't think that's the way it's supposed to work, but at times, like late January and almost all of February, that's the best we can do.

The Rosetta Stone for Birdcalls

Peter O’Leary

is the Rosetta Stone for Human Suffering. Caw = territorial
outrage. Musical flutings upwards = the days of summer are always
declining. Peep = hunger. Barrage of chips = desperate hunger.
Who? = the nest has been abandoned. Varied pipings =
I surrender my eggs to a predator. Grates & rusty
noises = the distance between us can only be managed by violence.
Trill = inadequacy of desire. Low whistles = difficulties with
lice, with bacteria, with fungus, etc.
No such stone ever hewn would translate lightning or torrent
a million years elicits. No such stone would bear the
incisions of the master’s awl.
Such a stone would serve instead as instruction manual for building
pyramids & museums.
When the accipiter in its suicidal plummet snatches the finch,
what instrument measures the strum of the vibrating airs? Who sees
the God who plucks this lute?

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