12 degrees F, at 6:30 am, and the sky is not light yet. Snowflakes, tiny at first, larger, fluffier by the second. Finally, to the east there is a slight lessening of dark. Soon the birdfeeders start filling up with small flitting movements, and hesitant chit chat. Seed hulls drift below, to the icy encrusted snow, to be gone over later by the mourning doves.
The old Yule tree, planted into the snow, slightly tilted, becomes the morning spot for the birds and their riotous kaffee-klatch. Mostly house sparrows, juncos and chickadees, soon joined by house finch, American gold finch, and the occasional dove. Fortunately, no sign of the hawk. The crows have done their duty, keeping the swooping thief away from the feeders.
No sign of a sunrise, other than the sky is a very light gray now. The snow is falling steadily. The birds continue their breakfast revelry and I step away from the window, on Friday to begin my own morning rituals.