Blizzard: Feb. 6, 1978
Sparrows and juncos at the lantern-feeder flutter and sway, clinging to the rim in spite of whirling blizzard winds and blinding white. They face into it, open-beaked, defiant feathers puffed out, defensively reliant on knuckled toes clamped fast to metal leader. Filling their crops against oncoming night how small they are, how blown about, how slim and fragile seem those toothpick legs: A whim of bladed snow could lop them off and bury corpse upon corpse in drift of February: yet they hang on till shutting down of light. Lord, shall I not take heart much as these least creatures You've bid through out the heart of storm to feast?