The snow fell straight down, plumb line vertical, landing with a soft snap, crackle, pop like Rice Krispies dropping into a vast bowl of white milk. Vertical snowfall I asked myself. In the Midwest where I grew up the snow never fell straight down. It was always driven at an angle by the wind.

Using distance to gain perspective, I looked across the inlet, studied the snow, and verified that it was indeed dropping straight down. It wasn’t a heavy snowfall, but enough snow for the schools to call an early dismissal, enough to cover the roads with a slick, slippery layer, enough to cause me to drive slowly and cautiously on my way to Prompton Lake.

I wedged the legs of the camp chair down into the snow, sat down, and surveyed my surroundings. This visual survey was the first step in activating sensory awareness, in directing mind and attention away from my internal thoughts, preoccupations, and problems, from the little world of me, out to the greater world of nature.

My sight settled on a wild blueberry bush a few feet ahead. I looked at its slender gray-brown knobby branches; each branch festooned with tiny tight dormant buds, buds that held the promise of small dark green leaves, of pale cream colored blossoms, of tasty purple-blue berries.

Just past the blueberry stood a dead maple, its branches broken off; its top severed by storm winds. The moribund trunk now served as a host for thriving colonies of fungi of all colors and shapes; red, yellow, orange and brown; splotches, wedges and crescents.

Further ahead where the little peninsula sloped down to a marshy thicket of red-twig dogwood and alders grew a line of gray birch trees, their delicate lacy branches clear and distinct against the gray sky. The white bark of each tree was neatly accented by black chevrons where the branches met the trunk.

A glance at my watch revealed that it was 2:44 p.m. The first 10 minutes of my hour long sit spot had flown by. I returned my gaze to the birch trees. Something about the pale slender trunks, the sharp black chevrons, and the endless fractals of lacy branches pulled me into a contemplative state.

I began to think about tree time; the months of silent winter when the trees appeared dead. Yet I knew that these graceful trees were tracking the advancing minutes of sunlight. Soon they would be activating their roots for the coming season of growth. Then in early May, when the days were longer and the air warmer, the buds would burgeon into yellow-green leaves, leaves that would turn dark green over the summer, leaves that would shimmy in the summer breeze. Tiny cone-like seed catkins would appear. In fall the leaves would turn dry and yellow, rustle in the wind, and flutter to the ground.

The cold, silence and snow would return. All of these events were part of tree time, of the birches following the sun clock and the seasonal cycles. And these birches, fast growing pioneer species that flourished in disturbed ground, were part of a longer tree time cycle as they would eventually be supplanted by the slower growing hardwoods, the maple, ash and beech.

Thirty minutes of watch time had elapsed and I had already counted six jet liners flying overhead, whisper-whining high above the thick clouds, heard but not seen. Air traffic delays at the New York airports, I thought. The flights were struggling to stay on their time schedule, looping around, waiting for their turn to land.

There was more human noise around me. I heard a plow truck rumbling down nearby Creek Road, its blade scraping along the highway. A car, then a truck, hummed down the pavement. I stretched my hearing further into the distance and detected the rising and falling whine of a chain saw, the barking of a dog, and the insistent beeping of a backup horn.

There were nature noises too, the sounds heightened by the padded background of snow quiet. The ice on the lake shifted, sometimes with sharp gunshot like reports, sometimes with long creaks and moans. Tree trunks and branches cracked loudly contracting in the cold. All around me the snow continued to fall down landing with a soft snap, crackle, pop.

All of these sounds were created by motion, I thought. Each sound told the story of something moving. I pictured the veins of lake ice stretching and rupturing, the wood fibers of the branches contracting and high above me the snow crystals forming and beginning the long journey to the ground. Of course I knew sound was carried by waves, but somehow I had always characterized sound as sound and motion as motion. Now, with motion and sound conjoined the world around me seemed even more alive, more infused with connections.

Forty-five minutes had elapsed and I realized with a tinge of sadness that I had not heard or seen a single bird. Oh well, I consoled myself, while walking across the boat ramp parking lot I had seen a mourning dove, tracked a pair of brown creepers scuttling up a pine tree, and spotted a pileated woodpecker flapping through the woods. The pileated had even put on a brief show, perching vertically on the trunk of a dead tree, hacking out chips of wood with its powerful bill, and calling out its trademark loud kik-kik-kik-kik-kik. I also reminded myself that it was mid-afternoon, usually the quietest time of the day for birds.

Then, at the farthest edge of my circle of hearing, I thought a heard a familiar sound. I willed my hearing to travel further, to pick up more. Nothing, and then I heard it again, a little louder, a little more distinct. I locked my hearing in the direction of the sound and gradually detected the raspy croak of a raven in flight. I listened intently. There were two calls, two ravens flying steadily north.

I pictured them in my mind, large black birds, strong wings flapping, dark plumage against white snow. I knew that ravens were smart, adaptable and communicative birds that would be opportunistically scanning the ground for food. Listening to the ravens calling back and forth I felt a smile spread across my face and flow down to my heart. For me, the calls of the ravens always evoked a sense of the wild.

Feeling satisfied to have heard at least one bird, I tuned back into to the sounds around me, the snow falling, the ice moaning, the branches cracking, the jets whining, the car tires humming. Suddenly, I heard a short high pitched squeak, then another. The squeaks came from the big peninsula.

I quickly brought up my binoculars, scanned the trees and spotted a flock of chickadees in the branches of a maple. A quick count tallied seven in the flock. I watched them flit from branch to branch and tree to tree. They headed in my direction and soon were perched all around me. One fluttered down to a nearby branch, cocked its head, studied me with a bright black eye and called chikadee-dee-dee, chikadee-dee-dee.

They flew on, a winter flock foraging in the winter woods. I felt as if I had been greeted, welcomed back to the woods. I felt almost as if I had received some tiny feathered hugs. Now I had heard two birds and had seen one up close. It seemed as if nature had sensed my desire and fulfilled it.

The last minutes of my hour ticked away. I stood up, brushed the snow from my hat and coat, packed up, and walked on to the icy inlet between the peninsulas. My earlier footprints had been filled in by the steadily falling snow. I shuffled carefully across the ice, seeking a safe route, listening for any crack in the ice, feeling for any yielding in the ice.

At the edge of the big peninsula I saw that the shoreline was littered with big rectangular chunks of ice, the byproduct of a strange winter of melts and freezes. I clambered up a big chunk of ice only to slide back down. I tried another with the same result. Searching the blocks I found one at a low angle, got down on my hands and knees, crawled up, grabbed the top of the block and with a sense of relief pulled myself onto dry land.

Back on the West Shore Trail, I came to the seep, one of my favorite spots in all seasons. Today, I saw tiny patches of green moss surrounded by white snow amidst a thin veneer of spring water squeezing downhill over hard frozen ground; a patchwork of green life in the winter forest. I continued down the trail and heard the sound of my boots crunching through the snow.

This sit spot took place on January 29, 2019 on the little peninsula in Prompton State Park.