Early March in the Catskills. Ascent of Friday Mountain. Cold wind, sun no good for melting hard-packed snow and ice. Pause for a break. Look! At the base of an old yellow birch, a dead chickadee, frozen stiff and wings dusted with snow. A little statue in the pose of a saint’s rapture, maybe, looking up to the bewildered heaven of our squinting eyes and how did this happen. But no surprise really. Dead things are everywhere, we eat them all the time. Continue climbing, reach a couple of summits, return home after stopping for beer. All that was yesterday. Today questions linger. So consult the field guide, chock-full of wingéd words on birds: Chickadee. “A bird almost universally considered ‘cute’. Whistled song is easily imitated; second note is 1 full tone lower.” Oh my! Little chickadee.