All Bluster. No Snow.

December 10th, still no snow. We had a smattering that stayed on the ground a few weeks ago, but it is gone. After much rain and temperatures in the mid-forties, the grass is greening up. We have ten pounds of wildflower seeds from Vermont that we would like to distribute across our field, around the stone wall in the middle, but it might germinate under current conditions. This means sprouts poking up from the ground, unaware that the sun will not climb above the white pines on its short journey around the property to cover them in light. The sun is weak against the dark and cold right now. It is powerless to rescue young sprouts out when they shouldn't be.

A stretch of high winds brought back the warmer weather. They arrived with fists flailing, knocking down tree limbs, rustling up the leaves, slapping tarps covering the woodpiles, whistling through the bedroom window we leave open a crack at night. The particular ruckus went on for two to three days. More wind at the start of the week brought down another tree across the driveway, which makes seven trees across the driveway this year.

The matter remains unsettled. The wind of one front continues to whip up against the other. They make footprints on the pond's surface as they lunge, parry, and riposte. We watch from our kitchen window. A gust hits the water, sending tight waves rippling over the surface. Another smacks the surface nearby, and another plants itself to the right, followed by another that beats the water to a foam. And then they are off, chasing each other through the treetops.

The squirrels hide. Everyone does. The chickadees and the nuthatches stay home. The trees curl their roots to avoid toppling over, keeping a watchful eye on their neighbors. They worry about the older community members nearby, especially the birch trees. The poor birch trees. They never seem well. They do not grow tall enough to compete with the other trees for sunlight. They must reach for it from the edges, bending as far as they can from beneath the canopy, and it is never far enough. One birch has finally keeled over onto a smaller beech, which now has the burden of growing up while supporting its defunct neighbor. The beech appeals to me to do something about it as I walk by. It has seen what I can do with a saw. Maybe I will.

At the moment, I am more worried about the porcupine. I ran into him two evenings ago as he was foraging on the lawn around his usual time. He is large and black except for the gray points at the end of his quills and the whiskers around his chin. After the usual pleasantries, I noticed his left hind leg was tucked under his side, obviously damaged. He moved away slowly on three limbs. He picked a path through the brush pile at the edge of the lawn and half slid, half dragged himself down the embankment into the woods. I fetched a flashlight and followed his movements for a short time, which I know he did not appreciate. Then I pitched him an apple. We do not have a dog at the moment, although we did—Potter—who mercifully never showed any interest in the porcupine, despite a couple of encounters. One had to be willing to run and jump to attract Potter’s interest. Where is the sport if you curl up like a ball and lay still?

The bats who made a home for the summer under a piece of loose siding on the garage departed weeks ago. It is prime bat real estate facing due south. High enough, warm enough, and cramped enough for daytime coziness. Tomorrow I will fill the void with steel wool to block their return to the space. However, we have a bat house to make good on their need for accommodations. Are you familiar with bat houses? They can be found in the same aisle with pet rocks. We purchased one twenty years ago at a garden center, thinking how adorable. Goodbye mosquitoes. Except that the probability of bats taking up residence in a prefab unit is approximately one percent.

But now—now—twenty years later, we have the opportunity to hang our bat house immediately over the blockaded entrance to a known summer colony. It will seem slightly different, slightly refurbished, when they return. How will they not be pleased otherwise? Same bat location. Same bat coziness.

It is suddenly quieter outside. Getting dark. And it is colder. A gentle breeze is tickling the branches. This morning when we woke up, the weather suggested snow flurries on Sunday. Everyone may be finally worn out. In which case, let it snow.