Place Entry 3

Before I could begin any deep ruminations or piercing observations, my first task was to wipe off the wooden lawn chair that rests under the oak tree by the pond of the foot of snow on the seat. Beneath the few inches of snow delicately resting on its arms, there was also a fairly thick crust of ice. After brushing off some of the snow and nestling my feet in front of the chair, I sat down to discover my two layers of pants would not resist absorbing some of the frozen moisture beneath me.

The snow had been a very polarizing force these last few weeks, pun intended. After the initial snowfall, many people emerged and frolicked in the bountiful powder, despite the great inconvenience of buried cars and halted bus service. But the swollen ranks of those who loudly professed their love for snow just days before had been gradually eroded by the inevitable attrition of continued snowfall, until their numbers had been whittled to a beleaguered minority.

I still counted myself among them, but I'll admit it was quite cold that late afternoon. The sky was just one shade lighter than the gray color of the snow that was absolutely everywhere. I believe I saw Sheryl St. Germain walk out of the Lindsey House, but she did not turn to face me and I cannot be sure. I did note that she walked quite coolly, and so perhaps she had not yet switched allegiance as well. Three mourning doves were perched above me in the large branches of the oak that craned over me, their feathers puffed up in their own attempt to block the cold. To my right, there were two more doves in a smaller tree. A steady stream of about a dozen or so crows flew overhead every minute, approaching from behind me and then gliding away.

To anyone hoping for a new dispatch concerning the pond fish saga, I am sad to report that I cannot provide an update this week. The pond is almost entirely frozen solid, except for a small area by the fountain, and is completed blanketed by a layer of snow. It is impossible to see what lies beneath.

The good news is that a new saga can now begin, for as I sat in the cold, I observed a large rustle of feathers across the way and behind Dilworth Hall. A hawk, I thought to myself, until I noticed the large avian form hop through the boughs in a manner completely unlike a raptor. In fact, it moved in much the way I have observed cracids like guans and chachalacas move through the rainforest canopy in warmer climates. It could not have been a cracid because their family is not represented in Pennsylvania, and so I knew what it was. As I watched, another of its race made itself visible in a slightly lower section of the tree canopy, hopping about the large branches in a similar manner.

As the night approached and the dim light grew even fainter, a steady stream of mourning doves began perching in the trees that surrounded me, preparing for the coming night, until there were dozens of them all around. But my eyes remained locked on the two large fowl that were still faintly visible.

Two Wild Turkeys.