Birds flock to the many feeders hanging in the large tree centered in the front lawn. Beneath the bare branches lays an assortment of random seeds and cracked corn. This scattered banquet is a welcome feast. The sky is overcast, and the day lacks all signs of color. Not even a single ray of sunlight shines through the impenetrable gray. The twilight dawn survives strong today. It hasn’t retired, and will do so only when the stars see fit to sparkle in the cold of a crisp winter night. Welcome to winter. The birds know of its delayed arrival as do all the creatures of the natural world. The mountains know. They always do, and always will. They greet the change in weather and appearance in their own way with a stoic expression indifferent to the rise and fall of any season. These are the days of warm hearths containing an enchanting glow. Popping sounds echo up an open chimney. The soft white noise of crackling logs fills the front room. The mountains know all too well these sounds, and the scenes. They’ve witnessed all this before throughout the many long years. The times may change, but for the mountains, winter is a familiar setting.
Copyright © Drew Martin 2016