Cold: 15 degrees last night. Even the birdbath is frozen solid. Luckily, I have a heated one on the deck. The titmice came to it early, even before my morning coffee.
For some reason, the cold turns me to Thoreau for comfort. I have a hardbound copy of his complete journals in two huge volumes: 1837-1861, a gift from Karen Sue. Here's an excerpt:
“January 2, 1853. 9 A.M. A clear day; a pure sky with cirrhi. In this clear air and bright sunlight, the ice-covered trees have a new beauty, especially the birches along the edge of Warren’s wood on each side of the railroad, bent quite to the ground in every kind of curve…The telegraph-wire is coated to ten times its size, and looks like a slight fence scalloping along at a distance. Is merged with nature.”
Yes, merged, solid, rock hard, lost its fluidity; everything is still: water, wind, even it seems, time itself; afraid to move for fear it might shatter in the cold. Everything except the titmice. How do they do it?