AND THE WEATHER-MAKER at the Church O’ The Pines decreed that on this day we should have snow. Not a lot, just a dusting, but enough that it looks like December and not November. And with the addition yesterday of the cabin Christmas tree, with grandchildren on hand to help, the season is in full swing. The winds howled in
THE BRIGHT MARE’S TAILS and puffy clouds of summer sunsets are no more. A skim of ice completely covers the Father of Waters, and by 5 o’clock the woods are dark. No lingering dusk, no calling of loons or white throats. But a late autumn glow fills the river valley, reflected by the ice, and the chill air booms with
AT THE CHURCH O THE PINES someone left the basement freezer open and now we are Narnia. The congregation shivers in their fur coats and feather stoles, and the morning hymns have a bit of a wobble in the high notes. Blue jays holler and shout, nuthatches mutter, chickadees say their names, and pileated woodpeckers, somehow, still laugh uproariously. The