December 31

December is at an end as is this Paxton year.

It feels out of place to write about endings now, for the truth I’ve discovered is that one day, one month, one season does pass slowly into the next. There are no beginnings and endings really. There is only the steady succession of this cycle of the seasons, and if we are careful, we may get caught up in its beauty and its wonder.

December 30

The moon’s cycle is nearly complete, for its new phase is due to arrive two days from now on the new year. The crescent this morning was merely a sliver of brilliant yellow, cast against the still dark southeastern horizon at just before six. In this shape, it is easy to see how tilted our own axis has become, as the moon’s concavity points downward notably toward the sun, which will make its appearance in over ninety minutes yet.

I went to the middle of the town fields on Grove to get an unobstructed view of its rising and also to bid a silent farewell. Tomorrow’s forecast is for flurries, arriving with a front coming through this evening; surely the clouds will cover the final sliver in the morning.

I stayed fifteen minutes, bundled just enough to keep away the morning cold and long enough to see the brightening of the eastern sky.

December 29

Fred had used the tractor to clear some of the sumac and briar from the lower ground next to the western fields, in an area that seeps moisture in even the most dry summer stretches. This acre has been fallow for several years, allowing these early colonizers to take hold and thrive, the briars notably so to the point that walking through has been nearly impossible.

Now there is access to the woods beyond, where the land dips into a valley formed by run off from the artesian spring. On still days, it is possible to hear the flow of the water from a hundred yards away, coming from within the folds of the small valley. On winter days, when the snow lies deep and the temperatures stay well below freezing, it is a curious sound to hear the running water.

It emerges from a six-inch pipe that rests within a rock shelf, clear water that flows neither forcefully nor feebly but steady, dropping roughly two feet into a small basin before making its way down slope toward Pine Hill Reservoir – a third of a mile through the deep woods.

On either side of the pipe edge, affixed to the lip in a mass and tumbling over and down six inches is a bright lime colored grouping of moss, striking now against the muted color of stone and brown leaves.

The water is crystal clear, cold, and wonderful to drink. It was a lifesaver for us five years ago this December, when the ice storm knocked out power for over a week.

December 28

Not one to linger too long with Christmas decorations, we moved the tree from the sunroom to the outside. This has become a small tradition each year – to place the entire thing, still in the stand, propped beside the tube feeder just off the porch. Until spring arrives, we then enjoy an evergreen addition to the side yard.

The birds certainly seem to appreciate this, for within minutes of setting the tree in place, several chick-a-dees alighted on the boughs nearest the feeder, using them as cover I suspect from the potential of the red-tails or the falcons. They’d hop flight quickly to the tube, reach within to extract the seed, and return quickly to the Christmas tree to open the casing. The juncos too seem to enjoy the new addition, as do the mourning doves, both milling about beneath like chickens in a barnyard searching randomly for cast-off fare.

Meanwhile, the sunroom floor was littered with dropped needles from our moving the tree, and we collected these with a dustpan, enough to fill a half-gallon bag. I took these to the fireplace room, spread them quickly on the crackling wood in the stove, and watched as they sizzled and smoked, making the room fragrant with a tinged piney odor.

December 27

The year closes in a few days, and we have known Paxton through beginnings and growth, maturity and harvest, decline and rest. It is tempting to think of endings now, as if the slow succession of these passing seasons has been experienced as such, as a linear passing of this thing we call time. We can’t, as the ancient Greeks proclaimed, “step into the same river twice.”

How wonderful to see it through to this point – not the end, though, as it is tempting to believe, but rather to know that the cycle of the seasons begins anew.

This is the real wonder – to know what is yet to come, that this river of experiences in this Paxton year returns upon itself; that we have stood not within the river, watching as the months and seasons have flowed past, but rather we have been carried along.

December 26

A flock of brilliant cedar waxwings landed in the crab apple trees that front the college, nearly unnoticeable if they hadn’t begun their high-pitched chirps. They feasted on the remaining berries still dangling like miniature darkened cherries in small clusters; the birds having no hesitation in moving quickly from one to the next.

They stayed for only a minute or so, unperturbed by my presence just beneath, until an unruly murder of three black crows came to inspect, landing on the white cross nearby and calling in protest. The cedars seemed to depart as one, making a last collective call before lifting off and flying up high toward the west.

The silence lasted only a few moments, till the crows became bored and looked for other victims to bully about. They too lifted one by one, noisily squawking for no apparent reason and flying toward the farm house to search for someone else to pester, I suspect.

December 25

We joined our friends across the road for Christmas dinner late this afternoon. Though the last of the harvest and sale ended nearly a month and a half ago, it still feels special to share time in the middle of the day, even if the farm is fallow.

In the warmer months, we become so used to seeing activity across the road from sunrise to well after sunset – such a hurried pace to accomplish work that never seems to end. Where summer was a rush to simply keep up, and autumn was busy in harvest, December is a time to merely rest, both in body and spirit.