Ahh, the winter of our discontent, as they say. The sky is cloudy and the air is biting. At the same time, the wind is singing a deep, throaty song as it rushes through the Chemung Valley. I don't know if it is coming off the bridges, or the frozen water, or if, maybe, it is playing the osprey pole like a reed.
The top of this part of the river is frozen, at least near the shore. The HuggaMutt is perfectly safe. Later on, she will break through in a little creek where we usually cross on the rocks. The rocks are inaccessible to me. She makes it, although she wets a paw in the process.
A surprise! Almost all of the thicket has been cleared, probably last week, before the cold snap. Is it for visibility, or simply to prevent overgrowth?
No matter. Ellie's loving it, and she's hunting like a true ground dog. Some little critter is challenging her, and she won't come to the call. I head back, blowing her whistle. Once she hears it, she cocks her head at me, barely visible. I whistle once more, and she comes running on her tiny legs, looking like the eensy powerhouse that she is.
Just before it clouds completely, the sun comes out for one last hurrah. And it's a beauty.