I went out to toss the carrot peelings on the compost pile, and stopped, thinking I’d heard a kestrel. I heard the call again, more distant, and could not spot it. But standing still there for so long, a golden-fronted woodpecker resumed his research up and down the trunks of the live oaks. The pale breast, the bright red beanie, the black and white ladder back. But I heard him first:

Tap-taptaptap-tap-tap-taptap. Like popcorn popping or a jazz percussionist with a random beat.

And the familiar sound on a December day--the beak against wood was a tenderness--like a hand on one’s shoulder--calming and bringing thoughts of spring.