The snow is close to melted. The Mourning doves yearn in their desire for the feeders of grain and seeds on the bridge post. Birds greet the people walking down the bridge. Families of house sparrows occupy their tangled bushes. Tufted Titmouse, darted, cutting through the air with their small bodies, lost in the sea of branches. Blue jays wish for an answer when they beckon with loud repetitive tones. Once your eyes are trained to see them, you’d have to be blind to not notice. The stream is teeming through rocks. Trees mourn for their deciduous fate, clinging onto their leaves, blessed that most shrubs still have them. In Centennial, winter has taken their leaves, ones of red maples, sugar maples, and yellow birch. There aren’t as many folks walking down trails and the birds don’t interact with those who do. Standing proud are eastern white pines with its tops touching the sky. Bird echoes are what can be heard in the canopy. It takes binoculars to observe them in their habitat. Here there’s the faint call of kinglets from the tops of pines, the fairest and most envied of song. Chickadees here aren’t free moving, they hurry fearfully to build warm nests in cavities. Woodpeckers peck their homes in cavities. All know relentless old winter is coming for them. Hemlocks by the stream droop their branches in sadness. It’s a matter of time before the swift stream, that collected leaves, freezes. As the woods are colored with bleak, I expect winter is approaching.