Easing into a new year

Seasonably cold, no breeze, blue skies, sunshine -- would that every North Country Winter day were this pleasant. It's a delightful way to begin a New Year. Have a happy, healthy, hope-filled, satisfying one. We are, as usual, enjoying the birds at the feeders: goldfinches, chickadees, hairy, downy, red-bellied and an occasional pileated woodpecker, a few juncos and nuthatches and cardinals and blue jays.

chickadee and goldfinches

Photo by J. Harrington

Something, we can't begin to guess what, left strange tracks in the snow last night. From the distance of our deck, they look a little like an otter slide, but there are no local otters that we know of and it's several  hundred yards to the nearest water. Perhaps this afternoon or tomorrow we'll slog over for a closer look.

Does it feel different now that we're actually in 2021 instead of 2020? We're taking the winter wonderland weather as a good omen that 2020 won't be followed by another 1984 and we won't spend too much time at an Animal Farm. As part of our contribution to moving away from dystopias, this winter we're actually organizing our fly fishing boxes instead of simply thinking, talking or blogging about it. The reality of taking a few Adams flies out of one box and consolidating them into less space in another is a great improvement over pondering what to do next or how to arrange things. The other element we have in mind is to actually get out and fish the flies instead of only planning to do so when "conditions are better." It's past time for us to acknowledge that the best time to go fishing is when you can, especially at our age.

May this New Year bring you an abundance of hope, health, happiness, and hugs, and for any anglers reading this, tight lines!

Burning the Old Year

By Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   

only the things I didn’t do   

crackle after the blazing dies.

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