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I’m starting a new ritual, where I reflect here with every full moon about the nature around me and my place in it. These posts will be moments to pause, to reflect, and to honor the raw, untamed magic of the world around me. They’ll be about nature, yes, but also about power—the kind that hums quietly in the roots of plants, in the flow of the river, and in the sharp, knowing eyes of crows.
This month, under February’s Snow Moon, the magic feels especially potent. Snow is a rare visitor here, and when it comes, it transforms everything. The river is a steady, rippling gray, the marina across the way filled with silent bobbing sailboats that wait for sunny days. And on my upper deck, where I’ve built a small altar of sorts, a ritual unfolds.
Every morning, no matter the season, I leave offerings for the crows. Peanuts and cashews mostly, sometimes hard-boiled quail eggs or bits of meat. They’ve come to expect it, these clever, dark-feathered friends of mine. Even on this rare snowy morning, they arrive as they always do, their wings cutting through the quiet like a secret whispered into the cold air. I watch from behind the window, wrapped in my warm white robe, a quiet observer of their delicate dance.
A mated pair I recognize take center stage today. One lands on the railing, snow clinging to its beak, and hops down to the table. It pecks through the snow, methodical and deliberate, until it finds the best nuts. The other watches from the railing, patient and still, as if it knows its turn will come. There’s a rhythm to their movements, a kind of wordless understanding that feels ancient and sacred. I watch the first crow stop and turn to its mate, showing what it’s chosen, handing off possession of the food table. It flies off and the second crow takes its place, fluffing its feathers against the cold, feet buried in snow, as it chooses which buried nut it wants to take.
In this moment, I feel the Snow Moon’s energy pulsing through the air. It’s a reminder to look beneath the surface, to find the hidden things—food buried in snow, yes, but also the quiet strength that lives in resilience, in trust, in the bonds we forge with the wild. The crows, with their sharp intelligence and unshakable presence, are my teachers today. They remind me that even when the world is cloaked in the unfamiliar, life persists. It adapts. It finds a way.
There’s power in this ritual, in the way the crows and I have built a fragile bridge of trust. It’s a small magic, but magic nonetheless. I decide that this is what the Snow Moon means to me: the quiet, the hidden, the things we uncover when we take the time to look.
As I watch the second crow fly off, I feel a deep sense of gratitude. For the snow, for the birds, for the river that carries me through each day. And for the reminder that even in the coldest, quietest moments, there is always something waiting to be discovered underneath.