There is a rebel wind today. The kind that lurks around and suddenly whirls through the treetops. A few brown leaves swirl madly down and tumble across the snow. When I step out the door, it lifts my skirt, Marilyn Monroe style, and blows my hair across my face. I try to hold down my skirt and hold the hair out of my eyes at the same time. It pulls the smoke from the chimney and sends it spiraling down over the roof and scudding across the fields. It rattles the windows and the bird feeder twirls, then striaghtens its self. The flag slaps the air, snapping as it furls and unfurls, red white and blue in the sunshine of this cold breezy day. Inside, the house is warm. It smells of bread baking and window cleaner and pledge. I wonder, how much does a bird weigh? A few ounces for a chickadee? They sit in the cedar tree and on the bare bones of the lilac bush, calling cheerily to the world. The wind doesnt seem to bother them. They fly straight as an arrow to the feeder, not buffeted at all. They are great grab and go birds. It takes me a long time to catch one with my camera. The juncos and the cardinals hop the ground, gleaning the drops. The titmice and the goldfinches swoop and chase eachother away, some times one getting a turn, then the others. The little bluebird sits on the eave. Hes not supposed to be here in the winter, but he is. I hear him often, but he doesnt usually come to the feeder. Today he sits there looking around with his bright eyes, observing. The wind ruffles his mellow red breast feathers, making him look disheveled and rakish. His lady friend would feel giddy if she saw him now! The gray squirrel darts from the trees to scoop up the sunflower seeds that got spilled when we filled the feeeder. Hes shifty, glancing around steadily while he eats. The blue jays arent here today,( there must be excitememt somewhere else). Its winter in the Raggedy Garden. The winter garden has its own beauty, like a black and white photo, showing lines and angles that you dont seee in the lushness of summer. Every thing makes a shadow, a dusky replica of every twig , every fence post, every bird, every treee. The rebel wind plays with the shadows, making them move and sway.January is almost over. Where have you gone,month of the wolf moon? Blown by the rebel wind, chased by the cold sun, shimmered by the silver moonbeams.Round and round, the carousel of life, let me live each day that the Lord hath made. Let me live it in peace and let me remember that underneath are thy mighty arms.