The Stuff Legends are Made of

The perfect season for a mystery--when morning fog shrouds every form, and the woods and fields have grown quiet. Shorter days steal the last light from the deepest recesses of the forest.
For what we cannot see—
there is imagination.


I stepped off the leafy path last weekend, where the grass leads into the dark pine woods. Beyond the crunching of dry fallen leaves beneath my steps, it became suddenly quiet, the ground a densely woven blanket of randomly strewn green and brown needles.
Shadows stretch from the edge, inward, across them.
The lower branches forming an impenetrable fence, their long bare fingers laced together--catching my hair and clothes as I venture past them into this protected space.

It was here, last year, that I discovered our owl, as she sat on a low branch, watching, from a distant corner. We met, with only feet between us, and held each other, eye-to-eye, until she flew off in silence through the woods and beyond. Her tree stands empty now, the whitewash faded from summer rains.


So what of this skull?
Bleached bone laid neatly on the blanket of needles, nothing more to suggest how it came to rest here, in the pine woods.
And what of the cow that is without it?

It is the stuff legends are made of.

Lingering

It happens quite often this time of year.
My frustration that the few beautiful days rarely coincide with my free time to enjoy them. Too often, I gaze out from behind glass--hoping there'll be daylight left to explore on my return from work that evening.
Disappointed, that the many days of damp gray will probably align themselves perfectly with the weekend.


But this morning was mine.
The periwinkle on the front bank has come forth from nowhere--
daintily curled blossoms unfurling in the bright morning sun.






What I had intended as a quick walk past the pond, soon became ant-watching.


Boulder after boulder placed atop the mound--they must've begun with the sun to have accomplished so much here--and, I'm sure, will continue their tireless efforts until it sets.

In the woods, as I approached Wood Pool, a large form flew from the trees--my owl. Her stubby profile so recognizable to me now--I watch until I can see her no more. Her refuge I'll not disturb. A family of owlets would like these deep dark woods. Their presence here makes these woods special.
Yesterday, she flew from the same perch.
And I wonder if she watches each night, as I count salamanders here in the dark.

I reluctantly turned to start back to the house--my pretty morning spent, the sunshine warm on my face and bare arms.

He has returned--the Tree Swallow who finds our bluebird houses the perfect place to raise a family.

And I recall the summer evenings watching them--coursing and dipping over this field.
Soon--very soon--there will be many days to enjoy.

Take a moment to find the ants in their anthills--

Lunar eclipse

One of our coldest late winter nights--the thermometer reads 9 degrees.
A couple of inches of crunchy snow beneath our feet, we stood and watched the brightness fade.
And listened to our owl under a dusky orange moon.

A night to be remembered.

Closet naturalist

What has 14 heads, 30 legs and 28 arms of differing lengths?




Answer:
A small board on the kitchen table, where I sorted the piles of fluff ‘n’ stuff—the owl pellets I collected from beneath the perch of my barred owl.


When I gathered the gray, furry pellets last spring, I tucked them away, dried and odorless, in a bag, hidden behind a box of saltines in the back of the pantry—for a time when gardening, hiking and the likes would not consume every bit of waking time. Now, almost a year later, and, having emptied the closet of Christmas cookies and fancy crackers piled high for the holidays, I came across the odd-looking bundle looking dangerously like some no-bake, health food snack.

Winter days are meant for discovery—and a 3-day weekend of frigid temperatures would mean plenty of uninterrupted time for the project. Quiet hours, the wood stove warming the house, crouched over the kitchen table—working a puzzle, of sorts.
My closets go unsorted, the laundry basket spilling over with mismatched socks to be replenished to the drawers upstairs.
But, intrigue wins over order.

Much of the fur washes easily off—as the tiny shapes begin to emerge, becoming recognizable forms not unlike our own.
Delicate, yet strong, preserved intact—bright, white bone.
And, in almost every pellet, a skull—a key piece to this puzzle—unbroken, swallowed whole.




Laid out before me, the little bones, so perfectly clean, become the smallest mammals of our field.


At work this morning, we share stories of our time away.
“It was a nice weekend,” I say. “Relaxed around the fire, worked on a puzzle..."
I left out the 14 tiny skulls lined up on my kitchen table.

Borrowing a feather

Last night, I found another barred owl feather in our woods. A reminder they're with us still, though we may not cross paths or hear them as much. I like to imagine them watching silently from a branch just over my head, as I walk quietly beneath. And I wonder if my repeated walks into "their" world are as interesting for them as they are for me-- watching the woman who watches.
This feather was lovely--not a flight feather, as I've found before. But a more delicate type, with long, flowing downy edges--maybe from the breast? A feather for warmth and watershed. So perfect and clean.


I wanted to stay outside, walking, watching...keeping the special feather as a treasure. Tucking it in a pocket would have ruined it--so, when I suddenly wanted to take a picture in the grassy field, I set it softly on the ground beside me. In an instant, a swallow swooped toward it.
I've read others' stories about tossing feathers into the air for birds to snap up--but never imagined they'd come as close to me as this. Tree swallows carefully place feathers to curl over the nest and keep in warmth when the mother must be away. And, our second nest box is now being made ready by a nesting pair.
I will part with my lovely feather--leave it on the grass beneath the swallows. It will just gather dust on a shelf in my house.



The barn swallows have a fancy feather in their nest, too! What do you suppose this is from--black, wispy, with a white central band?

She stands

The old oak stands at the back of our property.



Our deed from 1843 describes this piece of land in "poles", measured from the trees that mark its boundaries, hickories, ash, elm --and oak. Much of the land that had most likely been cleared for farming has regrown. The old oak, now growing amidst a forest of younger oaks, fanning out to the smallest, tender trees.

She is now more than 14 feet in circumference. An almost 2-century-old Pin Oak. Her massive arms, larger than many of the trees around her. She stands --straight, strong and tall.

She has seen many changes in this land. A house has been built, and a barn for a small dairy. The pasture lines have been drawn and redrawn--rusty remnants still tangling in the undergrowth. The hundred acres, divided. The residents, now names on markers in the nearby cemetery.
And still, she stands.


We've put a bench beneath her arms--a place to sit and think.
A place to feel small.
A place to feel safe.
A place to feel her strength.

Yesterday, I found a feather beneath the old oak. A feather from the barred owl.


Some day, to sit beneath this tree...an owl above...

Sometimes captured in memory is best

Last night was a night for owls.
When the weather is warm, before the humidity sets in and takes your breath away, we sleep with the bedroom door open--screening out the bugs, letting in the night sounds. It's never perfectly still, even in the very early spring. Before the peepers start their chorus, we have the sounds of the owls.
We've always known the barred owls in our ravine--heard their questioning calls and hilarious monkey chatter--but, not until last spring, did I actually see one. A visit one morning, as I was sitting at the computer, there she was on the branch just outside the window looking at me. Tears ran down my cheeks. We sat staring at eachother, neither of us moving for several minutes--then she was gone.
She and her mate stayed hidden for the remainder of the year, but their calls reminded us of their presence. Nighttime was very settling--lying in bed, owls calling softly outside.
Last fall, as I was driving to work, I passed a strange lump on the road, not far from the house. Far too big for a cat, more the size of a raccoon, but very mottled. Assuming I'd discover a strange mammal-type roadkill, I stopped and got out to check. My owl! How could she have been so careless... a car ...early that morning.
I hoped it really wasn't her. Maybe it was someone else's owl. But it had become quiet at night now. And even as the chilly winter nights kept us inside, I strained to hear what I hoped would be a sign that she was still there. Finally, in the spring, a call. But each time, only one--never an answer.
I wondered how long we'd be owl-less. The once comforting calls each night were now very disturbing. And each time I heard one, I wished, like the calling owl, for an answer.
In mid-March, I walked through our pine woods, eyes on the ground, trying to avoid the little streams of runoff from the adjacent field. I hadn't walked there in a couple of years and it surprised me how quickly the trees had grown tall and dense--the perfect spot for an owl. She had thought so, too, for, when I looked up, there she sat--a few feet in front of me, on a sturdy branch.
I don't have her picture, but I don't need one. In fact, I think that would spoil the magic for me. I can see her perfectly, every time I hear the owl call...and hear her answer.