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Some winters are like a winter cold that catches you on the blind side, knocks you down for a few days then seems to go, leaving a slight malaise to remember it by.
T he more closely Harold watched Faye fish the Cottonwoods Run, the more convinced he became of the deliberation and design in Ira’s craft. Every movement was precise and rooted in necessity. Thin and bent and accurate, Faye looked like a giant wading bird prowling the margin of the stream.
Harold rapped on the screen door. A raspy voice came from inside.
The glowing red letters on the digital clock read 6:15. Harold had seen a lot of changes in his eighty-one years, and this was a good one. He didn’t need the tick of an old alarm clock to mark the passage of time. There were more pleasant reminders: the change of the colours in the Kispiox Valley was one, the return of the steelhead another.
I looked out the kitchen window yesterday morning and saw a mid sized bird perched on one of the barren limbs of my feral apple tree. I grabbed the binoculars off the coat rack to get a better look. A ruffed grouse, mottled brown and tan, puffed up against the cold, came into focus. The incident struck me as seasonally appropriate, the north coast equivalent of a partridge in a pear tree.