Date: 2/17/26 6:22 am From: Ted Levin <tedlevin1966...> Subject: [VTBIRD] 17 February 2026: Hurricane Hill (1,100 feet), WRJ
6:23 a.m. (twenty-two minutes before sunrise). Twenty-four degrees, wind
South-southeast three miles per hour, gusting to seven. Flurries, few and
far between, almost countable, at the mercy of the wind. (Catching one on
my tongue requires patience.) Uniformly gray, shapeless clouds, horizon to
horizon. Waiting, hopefully, for the dregs of night to dissipate, for the
sun to burn through. Morning awakens slowly, incrementally, haphazardly.
Circadian baby steps are noticeable to crows and nuthatches, which sing
lustily, but not to me. Then, a blood-orange bloom in the east, vibrant and
ephemeral. An atmospheric thought, quickly graying over. Blink, and it's
gone.
6:29 a.m. Lone crow headed west toward Deweys Pond, where, on
Valentine's Day, devoted eagles visited last year's nest, high in a white
pine.
6:37 a.m. Morning dove bolts from the density (and security) of a roadside
spruce, wings louder than voice.
6:41 a.m. While orange momentarily stains the eastern rim of the sky,
chickadee and titmouse sing.
6:48 a.m. Brown creeper singing in the pines, barely audible.
7:02 a.m. Raven, silent as falling snow, heads toward the sun, grazing the
treetops.
*Among the Others: *Cedar waxing, red-breasted and white-breasted
nuthatches, pine siskin, American goldfinch, dark-eyed junco,
red-shouldered hawk, first of the year (FOY), common grackle (FOY).
*Annals of a Successful Hunt: *Yesterday, mid-morning, the barred owl I've
taken to calling George, which, in reality, could be any barred owl of any
sex, perched on a horizontal maple branch fifteen feet above the ground,
fifteen feet from the corner of my deck, a gray-brown, striated, football
of a bird. Feathers fluffed against the cold. George slowly bobbed and
weaved, tilted his head slowly, and leaned into a sound beyond my range of
hearing. Up and down, a feathered triangulation. By now, I'm on the deck.
George couldn't have cared less.
Below the deck, across the narrow meadow, a red squirrel had left the
hemlocks and moved through a subnivian tunnel. The squirrel popped up once,
mid-meadow, a periscoping rusty head. The owl crouched, unfluffing his
feathers. Streamline and hungry. Then, the squirrel submerged and continued
along the tunnel. The owl launched, wide wings extended and bent. Barely
flapping. Tail slightly fanned—a low, silent glide, a sound-seeking
missile of a bird. Just under the branches of an azelea, the owl hit the
snow, feet first, wings stretched in front of his head as though delivering
a benediction.
The owl held his position for several minutes, head tucked to his feet. He
rose from the meadow, limp squirrel in talons, and flew about thirty feet
to the edge of the woods. Crash-landed by a hemlock sapling, wings extended
horizontally. Fussed with the squirrel several more times and flew up
into a hemlock. Above and below the owl, chickadees and titmice protested.
Goldfinches and juncos did not. Then, the owl disappeared into
the benevolence of hemlocks to breakfast in peace.
