(Ed. Note: The writer is an associate professor of sociology at Adelphi University and a Woodbury resident.)

This winter I've watched snow from the comfort of our kitchen and found it to be enchanting, mysterious or soothing. I've also discovered that a snow-covered landscape enhances the pleasure of looking at birds. One weekday morning I looked out to see a gray sky and a big storm cloud heading this way. Out of nowhere a large flock of starlings descended on our lawn. Their heads moved up and down pecking away at the ground. Then they all jumped or flew over our steps to the other side, their dark bodies filling the lawn. Soon their curved wings lifted them into the air. More, apparently from nearby trees, flew past our glass door until none were left.

Within minutes the cloud covered everything and a driving carpet of flurries came down. A large tree on our lawn soon had one side of its trunk covered in snow, as were the tree's large bulging roots. The snow shower lightly covered the grass and the rear windows of cars. Soon dying flurries gave way to a pale blue hole in the sky and a weak sun. Not long after, sunlight and shadows fell on the lawn turning its powdery surface to wet ice.

A few days later on a Saturday morning, my wife's birthday, there is a temporary respite from a storm which started yesterday. The big blast is supposed to begin later. Looking out onto our snow-filled patio a tiny sparrow appears hopping on the snow. It pecks at the surface of the snow, its tiny bill opening and closing. "What could it have found to eat there?" I say to my wife, who is less than happy to be snowed in on her special day. It is less a question than an exclamation. The bird walks up a drift and stands next to a pot of dying pink mums. The juxtaposition of the bird and the almost covered pink flowers is captivating. Later, driven by a howling wind, the snow comes swirling off rooftops turning the sky a ghostly white. The red needle on our thermometer reads in the mid-20s. Snow collects in the grooves of our patio fence in a symmetrical collection of arrowhead shapes and continues all afternoon. The little house sparrow is long gone.

The following Sunday it again snows. This time flakes the size of quarters come down soon blanketing everything like a heavy winter coat. The aroma of baking apples, which my wife is cooking, filters through the house. It is the aroma of warmth and security. A lone white gull is visible in the milky sky primarily because of its black wing tips. A house sparrow flies into some snow-covered bushes. It flits here and there, its movements obfuscated by the snow. The little bird flies to a bare tree climbing from one branch to another, its tail twitching. Its brown and black seem vivid in the white landscape. Almost out of sight, the sparrow suddenly shoots off unevenly into the sky.

Almost two months later I got up at 4:40 a.m. for what is euphemistically referred to as a restroom break. On the way back to bed I notice a small shape which shouldn't be on the large tree in front of our house. I move close to the window. A squirrel perhaps with its tail stuck up in the air? No, it really has the shape of a bird, but I don't recognize this one's profile. The head turns slowly in my direction. It seems to have small tufted ears. An owl? With an hour plus till sunrise and a nosy human, the bird flies.

I spent much of the next day doing some research and while I can't be sure of the bird's identity, my most likely suspect is an 8 1/2 inch bird called the eastern screech-owl. What I found most interesting is that in the winter, particularly if the forest floor is covered in deep snow, this bird will go further than in summer in search of mice and other prey. Snow, of which I have had more than my fill this winter, may have been instrumental in providing a glimpse of an intriguing night visitor. The next two nights my wife and I got up to see if the bird was there and, of course, it wasn't. The mystery and excitement of that night, however, is still there whenever I glance out at that tree.