In this cut-over desolation of evergreen, of slash and briars, one small bush with no leaves combs the chill fog out of morning. A chickadee lands on it, begins, with its threadlike whistle, to say to the universe, "There has never been a more remarkable place or time or world than this, and I am recording it for a moment of air. I am satisfied with it, and it with me." He says it again and again, clearly believes it. Then he flits away toward a thick tangle of rank weeks, filled with wintering seeds.