This body like yours is water, air, gaps and bone so the approach of this storm moves inside us too. We know. Even without the absurd blizzard warnings we would know that something was coming for our feral energies are pulsing, consolidating, giving us reason to prepare and then lock down, but we feel a quickening too, a bounce, an urge to swoop toward the snow.
In the woods a few hours ago hundreds of robins passed from tall tree to tree, leap-frogging, descending for any scratch of food, flicking east in broken flocks, flying toward water and a meadow. Later, at our home, dozens stripped the winterberries.
They know. They are caught now, and will ride out this storm in dense thickets, sometimes lifting one leg under their down. They will shiver. They will try to avoid the wind. At first light, they will look for any source of food.
We will hear that wind rising tonight. The windows will shake. At first light a few of us will dress, look out and see this wild thing come to rest. We will go out into the blast and in spite of common sense, turn our faces to it and let it wail all around us.
What a beautiful photo! Jack always said that the robins are here all winter long–I just never believed him!