The house is quiet.
From behind a sheer, frosty curtain, the world is waking—while the moon casts the sharp shadows of bare trees in bold lines across the woods beyond my window.
It will be the perfect day to stay inside--watch the feeder birds as I sift and sort.
December has become my month for housekeeping.
Not in the literal sense, although there’s a fair share of that, as well. Closets to be cleaned, the dusty underbed world, a freezer stocked with food wisely packed away, then forgotten--all attempt to catch my eye as I walk past them.
I’m a great one for hanging onto things.
Letting go, is my greatest challenge.
A generously stocked feeder has brought a frenzy of dawn activity. Titmice and chickadees dash in, one after another, and grab the black oil sunflower seeds, flying off to nearby branches to deftly pry them open. Elbowing past the finches and cardinals who are rolling the seeds around in their thick, nutcracker bills, they quickly return. Showers of shells fall all around.
On the ground beneath them, the sparrows scratch, forward and back. A junco hops up and over a fallen log at the woods’ edge, his belly already the dusting of white he finds on the snow-covered patio.
After almost 3 years of constant camera outings on new trails to be discovered with new lenses and settings to learn, I’m wading through an increasingly deeper and wider pile and file of photographs—35,000. And it shows no sign of sorting itself.
The mind that at one time could find each fairly easily, now struggles through the rising, swirling tide. Hard drive spinning, fans wildly alive, I’ve started to tag it all, sifting and sorting, in this housekeeping so badly needed.
From beyond the glass, they look at me.
Then all is quiet.
Again, I must run and grab my camera.