The universe outside my window has been gentled into whiteness. Snow lies everywhere—on roofs, on branches, on the grass now indistinguishable from sky’s reflection—softening edges, quietening intention. In such weather, it seems almost instinctive to remain indoors, to honour warmth as one honours safety. Why would anyone willingly step out into this hushed severity unless necessity demanded it?
I am settled by the window, indulging this thought, when the stillness is suddenly animated. A flock of birds descends upon the snow-laden branches of a nearby tree. They arrive lightly, as if falling rather than flying, bending the delicate limbs beneath their weight. Some remain above, balanced and alert; others drop to the white ground below, hopping, pecking, pausing—entirely at ease in a world that has persuaded humans to retreat.
I look more closely. They appear to be American robins—familiar, yet surprising in winter. A few reveal the warm rust-coloured breast that gives them away, glowing softly against the monochrome landscape. Others are more muted, their grey-brown backs blending with bark and shadow. Perhaps the brighter ones are the males; perhaps the cold itself has subdued their colours. They move with quick assurance, heads tilting, wings flicking, leaving faint, momentary markings on the snow that vanish almost as soon as they are made.
Their chirping is not loud, not insistent—just enough to remind the morning that it is alive. Short calls pass between them, notes of contact rather than song, as if they are speaking quietly among themselves, unwilling to disturb the peace they have entered. There is energy in their movements, even playfulness—a lightness that seems improbably cheerful in this sub-zero cold.
Watching them, I feel something unexpected rise within me: wonder first, then a strange happiness, and finally a quiet, unnameable bliss. They appear untouched by the harshness that defines this season for us. While the world shivers, they do not merely endure—they seem to participate, even to enjoy.
Why do they venture out when we draw inwards?
What sustains this vitality when the landscape itself seems to withhold comfort?
Perhaps it is because they do not stand apart from winter; they belong to it. Their bodies are made for this season—feathers layered like careful thought, hearts beating faster, instincts attuned to scarcity rather than abundance. Or perhaps the reason is simpler, and therefore deeper: life, for them, does not wait for ideal conditions. It proceeds, alert and responsive, finding nourishment where it can, delight where it must.
There is no romance of survival in their behaviour, no visible struggle. They accept the cold not as an adversary but as a fact—like light or darkness. In that acceptance lies a lesson we often forget. We seek refuge too quickly, imagining that withdrawal is wisdom, that comfort is the highest good. Yet here, on a snow-covered branch, vitality announces itself without complaint.
I am reminded of Camus’ quiet assertion “in the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” Perhaps these birds embody that truth—not as metaphor, but as lived fact. Their summer is not the absence of winter, but the ability to move, to sing softly, to remain awake to the world even when it offers little in return.
As they lift off again—suddenly, collectively—the tree returns to stillness. The snow remains undisturbed, as if nothing had happened. Yet something has shifted within me. The window no longer feels like a boundary, but a threshold. And winter, seen through the brief, bright courage of these small lives, appears less a season of retreat than an invitation—to remain present, to stay engaged, and to recognise that vitality and inspiration are often born not of comfort, but of the willingness to step into the world, even when it offers only inconvenience in return.
scribo ad LX 