It was a new dawn this morning.
By the colonial calendar, the first day of winter — but winter has been here for weeks and more. By our way of reckoning, the first full day of the Earth’s new year, one that acknowledges that this is more early midwinter than the season’s first day.
And this new day broke across land and sky in a radiant expanse of amber and silver light, rays not so much fanned out as utterly invisible, so perfectly blended and complete was their color gradient. To the west lay a gradient of a different sort, clouds in shades of slate blue, the bare branches arrayed against them limned in gold far-flung by the sunrise. The air was clear, and clean, and perfectly still, and for those early quiet moments, it was possible to believe that a new year is a tangible thing.
As the sun rose higher, of course, the low mechanical hum of the day began: coffeemaker here, traffic out there, a solitary hot air balloon blocking the view of a distant peak. Humanity mostly has little sentimentality for the sanctity of such moments, and indeed, more likely notices them not at all.
In this small space we call ours, things are different. We live and work by the rhythms of the Earth, by the beat of her heart and the pattern of her breath, by the birth of her seasons and the song and dance of her children. And this year, as much and perhaps more than any other in memory, our winter is carried on wings of golden light.
I don’t mean that just metaphorically, either, although there is much truth in the symbolism. But in the face of what promises, by all ordinary indicators, to be a long harsh season, one that by rights should be filled with deep snows and deeper cold, the tiny wingéd spirits of the early days of summer are making their home here once again.
After a few weeks of appearances by a pair of males, a whole family of goldfinches has settled in for the winter.
I captured photos of four at one go yesterday, even as I thought I spotted two more off to the side in the aspen’s bare branches. Moments ago, I counted seven at the feeder: more than I have ever seen together here at one time, even in the mildest off summer weather. In this place, these are the birds of the end of May, stopping off momentarily on their migration back north, here for no more than those specific three to four weeks at most over the course of a year.
And here they are, the full clan in full winter.
The light glancing off their golden wings reminds me of today’s featured work, another small wingéd spirit of summer that nonetheless holds on its fragile yet powerful wings the amber hues of a winter sun. From its description in the Pins Gallery here on the site:
On Sunny Wings Hummingbird Pin
Summer departs and autumn arrives on sunny wings. The small fierce spirits of this threshold season infuse this work by Wings, a tiny silver hummingbird who carries the sun itself. The wingéd one is cut freehand out of sterling silver, with wings outstretched in full hover and dagger-like beak at the ready. A triangular point defines the beak; a single lengthy score line separates the wings. Sunrise symbols in two sizes delineate body and edge of wing feathers; the tailfeathers are formed by a flowing-water motif and edged with arrowhead points. Where wings join body, a single small round cabochon rests in a saw-toothed bezel: fiery orange amber, the color of the autumn sun in a place and space of magic, mystery, and medicine. Pin stands 1.5″ high by 2-1/8″ across at the widest point; amber cabochon is 3/16″ across (dimensions approximate).
Sterling silver; amber
$625 + shipping, handling, and insurance
It’s impossible for us to regard the goldfinch clan’s presence as anything other than a gift, in no small part for traditional reasons. But we know that one reason for their appearance is that climate, weather, and season have all been upended and inverted by anthropogenic and catastrophic climate change. Under any reasonable scenario, even one goldfinch should not be here now; instead, we have a whole family of them to feed. It’s a responsibility we’re delighted to fulfill, but it tells us at least two things: 1) They have adjudged stopping and staying here safer than following their usual migration patterns; and 2) despite the presence of so many indicators, this may not be a hard winter after all. And in this place, where snowfall provides the vast majority of our useable water the rest of the year, an easy winter is a bad winter.
Still, we have hope. The clouds of morning have thinned, spreading outward and lightening to a veil of sheer white cover, a clear signal of changing weather. The forecast still predicts snow for Tuesday, and if we are truly lucky, it will begin earlier and end later. The juncos and sparrows are hard at work, the magpies and crows and ravens, too. Even the hawks have returned, our red-tail seeming to have followed us into town and home again yesterday. As long as this place remains a haven for the winter birds, it points to a certain essential health and harmony, at least of this small square of land.
That alone is grounds for believing that this new year of the Earth, this winter season, will be a good one.
As long as our winter is carried on wings of golden light, we have good cause for hope.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2019; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
