I write this in the midst of what’s likely to be remembered as the second great blizzard of ’26. Fearful birds mob the fast-emptying feeders out my study window, finches and juncos mostly, though a blazing cardinal waits his turn on the railing, his scarlet the only daub of bright in today’s drab palette. Why do bright colors brighten our spirits while pallor palls? Alistair, my algorithmic assistant, would know – and thank me for my question – but for now I prefer to see what I see on my own.

I wonder, if I did not write, would I see? The daunting dare – to transport this moment to some indefinite futurity – turns me beady sentinel, peering for a clue. Suddenly I’m not I but a communicant with unmet eyes who will judge my success. Who hasn’t gazed out windows at Nature whirling: “Why seems it so particular with thee?”

The enormity of opportunity weighs on me like a bishop’s cope – what a task, to rescue this instant from oblivion! I envy photographers their retentive ease. Even my smartphone’s quick click would capture some of this hour’s character, enough to recall it to my mind if no one else’s. Words are less cooperative recording devices, for they seek to convey not facts but feelings about those facts. By telling you what I see I’m telling you who is seeing. The abler the writer, the more they reveal themselves. Critics tell us we know nothing about Shakespeare for he left no confessions. I know Shakespeare like a brother, I protest, for he has shown me his innards in a thousand postures, unmistakably true.

I cite Shakespeare not to compare myself but to evoke the magnitude of my chance. Sitting to make, I am ringing eternity to see who picks up. Most likely nobody, but somebody might and that possibility tenses my attention. I hear my mother sing-songing, “You only have one chance to make a first impression.” If I engage this distant stranger, I might not be dead!

The snow gusts in white waves. Bushes and branches bend to its might. The birds have vanished. Why, I wonder, when seed and suet remain? Now they return, with their incessant sociability. They have so much to say to one another! Their complex relations resemble ours, though I’m guessing they’re less proud.

The homeless beneath their cardboard covers come to mind – I can’t help it – in the City sixty miles south. Have they found safer shelter than their doorway? Have they sought it? Maybe they pray for the snow to simplify their future. I know as little about their lives as I do the birds’. But today I see them huddled, shivering, waiting. What kept me from being one of them? Isn’t it all just luck?

My warmth and fortune astound. I think of Shakespeare, as so often. “Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,” the exiled Duke cheers his followers in the forest,

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe seasons’ difference; as the icy fangAnd churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,Which, when it bites and blows upon my bodyEven till I shrink with cold, I smile and say“This is no flattery: these are counsellorsThat feelingly persuade me what I am.”Sweet are the uses of adversity,Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;And this our life, exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

Yes, the storm is terrible, but we are safe here, and in thanks, obliged to devote our all.