The rest of the year it’s quite an ordinary tree.

Large, growing here long before my home was even a dream, and some kind of pine – it stands just west of the deck beyond the room where I eat, and basically live. Its top stretches higher than I can see above the transom unless I were to bend very, very low to take another look.

Unlike the other trees which flower and entertain with their changing colors, the pine remains the same month after month. Unlike the other trees which are now reduced to stark branches with varying degrees of puffy snow, the pine was made for the heavy coat it  proudly wears.

Branches droop with a literal foot of snow. Like a grande dame, now frail, it doesn’t hesitate to adorn her creaky body with the heaviest fur.

Snow continues to fall as the pine bears witness, stoic in its browns and greens and — above all — white.

The snow and the chill combine to make the scene a still one. Except – oh, yes, very much, except for that nearby pine. It teems with life. Every branch bears witness to its movement for it is there, even more than the closer but naked larch, that the birds wait their turns to return to the feeder.

Much as one tree was decorated last month with ornaments dangling from every branch — sometimes even two or three together — this large pine is now decorated — but decorated with movement. My eye can look at no part without glimpsing one variety of bird or another.

For all the complaints about the “eternal” snow, this winter has proved a blessing by bringing in strange birds as well as the regular feeders whether it be for the sunflower seed, assorted mix or suet. The downy woodpeckers (two females and one male — at least) perch on the larch when not feeding. A female hairy is a daily visitor, her mate (if it be so) almost as regular. The house finches surprise with flashes of color while the goldfinches will have to wait for that advantage. The blue jays, the wrong size for the holes at the feeder, tend to invite friends but must be raucous enough to merit the dog’s attention for it is he who nudges me to put out another handful of peanuts. (He knows there are always a few extra for him.)

Some fly down to take a mouthful and return to crack the kernels open to reach their sustenance. Others find safety in its heavily-laden branches, the smaller birds waiting their turns in safety for, like it or not, the jays and the hairys insist on taking their portions first.

The sparrows, tree and white-throated and one I’m unable to identify from behind, wait underneath, happy for the leftovers that are carelessly dropped into the snow.  Hungrily digging, some of the more voracious birds burrow as deep as their body height for just one more sunflower seed while the chickadees and perky titmice prefer the dish by the window. Meanwhile, the cat spends leisurely hours on the railing, tail switching back and forth, entranced by the continuing action. She’d stay longer, I’m sure, but has to hurry in to use her box. (Something is obviously wrong here. I trust it will correct itself once the temperatures rise again to double digits.)

Then, filled for the moment, they line the branches — downy, tree sparrow with its diagnostic chest spot, the delicate sharp-crested titmouse, the black-backed junco — resting. Resting restlessly for the feeder waits and they won’t hesitate to feed once more.

The primary joy of this relentless snowfall has been two visitors, each seen before but now a daily part of my routine. A — and only one as far as I can see — rufous-sided towhee (robin large with dark orange added to its black and white) is into its third week of paying daily visits. Since I had recorded only one sighting before, this remains a treat.

Newer, marking the end of her first week today, is a red-bellied woodpecker. She seems as tame as earlier photographs would suggest and is the first at the suet once the sun (and one sleepy birdwatcher) has risen. There was one brief encounter last month but my eyes registered nothing but a large beige bird with a red cap. I needed the daily encounters to verify what I had seen. Funny, the black and white back is obvious but it is still the red and light brown which catches the eye. Mine, at least.

I shall be sorry to see these two go. If it means putting up with more winter than I for one will continue to sing, “Let it snow.”

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Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. Her Reason for Being was published in 2008 with Love in Three Acts appearing in 2014. Copies are available at the Cassadaga ShurFine and Papaya Arts on the Boardwalk in Dunkirk. Information on all the Musings, the books and the author may be found at Susancrossett.com.