Day 18.

It's still rainy and dismal, the world divided neatly into shades of gray and green, and the temperature has been slowly dropping since this morning. It's still in the 40s, though, and it's wet and icky out, a good environment in which to write and drink coffee.

The bald eagles up here have become much more visible. Scarcely an hour goes by when I don't see them. Yesterday they were at work all day, collecting branches to build their nests with, and I'm sure there'll be eaglets soon.

I looked up from writing today and was surprised to see a man in the yard. I went out to talk to him, after calling off the dog. I have no idea who he is, but he apparently has a cabin up here, and we chatted for a few minutes about the coming spring. He's a tremendous curmudgeon. I told him that the bird life has increased by leaps and bounds, that I'd seen snow geese and herons and swans and ducks. "You didn't see snow geese," he told me irritably. And right now, as I type this, there's a snow goose winging her way over the river.

I went for a nice walk yesterday to chop up and haul back some deadfall, since the woodpile is shrinking rapidly. There's something incredibly wholesome about breaking a trail through the woods, an axe on your shoulder, a dog at your side—in a way that, say, walking down the city block with an axe can't really touch.

It's supposed to get cold out again in a few days, and I'm looking forward to a shift in the weather, in whatever direction. I think I'll start on a batch of stock tonight, since I've been hoarding bones since I arrived here, and I'll turn that stock into some sort of delicious soup. But for now, I have to go and eat green beans.

There's another one, a snow goose. Didn't see a snow goose, my ass.