December begins as my least favorite month. Gray skies, cold rain, muddy roads and even shorter days signal the bleak end of autumn. But thanks to incessant holiday hype, December epitomizes winter cheer. Holiday classics such as "White Christmas" and "Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let it Snow" reinforce the bond between December and freshly fallen snow.

      Yet, having lived in Pennsylvania, Delaware, Arizona, Michigan, Oklahoma and West Virginia, I've found white Christmases are the exception rather than the rule. Some years, however, are memorable. Home from college many years ago, I got stuck in a Christmas day snowstorm and had to drudge two miles through two feet of snow to get home for the holiday meal. And a few years ago winter roared in early. In mid-November, eight inches of snow fell, and schools closed. On the heels of several more measurable snowfalls, a white Christmas was assured.

      On cold winter days I love to just sit by a window and watch the backyard. At dawn's first light, chickadees and cardinals race to be first to the feeders. The cardinals' rush seems mostly force of habit, but the chickadees have a compelling physiological need to be first in line. On cold winter nights, chickadees sleep in small tree cavities where they lower their body temperature and metabolic rate as much as 25 percent. When they wake, they've burned all their fat. They need to fuel their metabolic furnaces. So don't think them gluttonous when they tap the windowpane in dawn's early light. They're just hungry.

      Later in the day, usually around noon, several deer patrol the yard. They clean up the seed that litters the ground beneath the bird feeders. Sometimes they come to the feeders right outside my office window. If my movements catch their eyes, they study me as closely as I watch them. One of the regulars, an older doe, walks with a pronounced limp. Her right rear leg was obviously broken, but has healed. She has survived at least two hunting seasons. I first noticed her in the spring, so I doubt the injury was caused by a gunshot. More likely, she was a step too slow in a race with a pick-up.

      Less reliable December highlights are northern migrants that occasionally push this far south. Ornithologists call them "irruptive migrants." They migrate south only when the seed crop of northern conifers and maples fails. Evening grosbeaks, pine siskins, purple finches, red-breasted nuthatches and redpolls are the most likely of this group to be seen at feeders. This might be a big winter for these irruptive migrants; grosbeaks and red-breasted nuthatches began showing up in West Virginia back in September.

      On a great December morning, the sky clears. The sun glistens on newly fallen snow, reminiscent of a white sandy beach in July. Ice-covered trees, grasses and even barbed wire fences shimmer like diamonds. A flock of brilliant male cardinals perches in an apple tree. And if all is truly right with the world, a gentle snow falls as we make our way to the candlelight service on Christmas Eve. Maybe there's hope for the year's final month after all.

      Even December nights hold great promise. Deep, throaty hoots of great horned owls often echo along the ridge. To hear this serenade under a moonlit, snow-covered earthscape is pure magic. The songs strengthen the pair bonds necessary for a successful nesting season. By the end of January, great horns will be on the nest, sometimes under a layer of snow, incubating a clutch of two or three eggs.

      December begins bleak and dismal, but by year's end it is among my favorite months. The backyard teems with life, days get perceptibly longer, and the promises of spring once again seem within reach.