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.

Brrrrr...rds!

Revisiting Lake Katharine

It seems hard to believe.
Just last Sunday we walked in warm temperatures through Lake Katharine’s magnificent landscape, a preserve, unusual and strikingly beautiful.

Through hemlock woods, sleeping quietly beneath oak leaf blankets.

This Sunday, our weatherman is forecasting an “arctic front.”

I’m glad for the many pictures I took away with me, and the reminder they are, that even though the rural farmland surrounding me is vanishing, I live at the edge of beautiful places that will remain.
Places I can visit--for a day, and revisit--in an instant.

Sandstone cliffs surround Lake Katharine's protected habitat. Within the rock, rounded quartz pebbles remain—cemented by time, washed into the sea which covered most of Ohio 300 million years ago.
Now, fallen free as a result of weathering, they dot the trails—bright white, easily seen in the darkened preserve.
Pocks, bumps, swirls—sculpted by the elements, smoothed by the creeks have become toeholds for the smallest lichens,

the towering trees.



Could it be, it will be even more beautiful in spring?

A taste of something wonderful

When I think of “preserves,” I imagine something special. A creation standing apart from others similar—made a treasure by the value of its contents. Usually of small size—and, often a gift.

Lake Katharine State Nature Preserve, is just that.
And, although many would save it for a spring walk, set it aside for a warm, sunny morning to admire the many endangered wildflowers within--or a summer hike, under the shade of the bigleaf magnolias, while little waterfalls cascade through patches of mountain laurel and blueberries from sandstone cliffs.
We ventured into the cool, dark hemlock woods on an ordinary winter day—and treated ourselves to its wonder.
The filtered light, even in winter, creates a special place--a special feeling of calm within these walls.

Undisturbed in time, the verdigris on pine bark, its patina.

Fallen trees, their wood now shades of mahogany, are held--feathery fingers of moss, reaching, weaving.

The old stand with the new--sporophytes standing above the dense, mossy bed, crimson threads in the forest fabric.



Mosses and liverworts, thousands strong, building microhabitats for the smallest lives.




Nurturing the next generation.

Young hemlock standing in mossy bed of fallen tree.

Mosses and liverworts are unidentified. The thousands to choose from discouraged me from attempting it--please feel free to help out!

No ice.

Usually, if we are lucky enough to have thick ice on the pond--thick enough for skating--it will arrive in January. Ice skates tower in boxes on the top shelf of our coat closet. Black skates, white skates, figure skates, hockey skates--we have them all, in all sizes. Perched precariously, waiting for the day we may excitedly lift them down--and walk, wobbly-footed out onto the pond, to skate under Orion's watchful care.

But, this week's balmy weather roared through the house like a bellows--we won't have ice for skating any time soon.

The warmth lets me linger a little more on the trails, and look a bit further than a brisk walk allows.
Without the distraction of leaves and colorful grasses, these under-appreciated lives take center stage.





Bright, rich color.
Texture and delicacy.
Geometry.

Lichens--layers of life, sharing space.

And, even in January, a spider.

I don't believe ice-skating is in the stars.

Have you seen...

Soybeans and corn--the two crops this rural area produces--flank the sides of the road I walk. Every spring, we wonder which will be planted where, and wait to see what sprouts.
Our summer is measured by the growth of the crops, and winter's approach, by the harvest. There's not a tree to break the January wind that howls down this lane--enough to freeze your cheeks and make your eyes tear.
It's not yet time to see the changes spring will bring here--little green onions and the killdeer.
But, every day, I look, hoping.


The frost on the cobs,

and the husks

are its fruits of this season.

"Have you seen...." is an effort to discover the unusual beauty in things not usually appreciated for their beauty.

I’ve never understood the lack of respect for land.
Why it would be considered an act of rudeness to empty a car’s ashtray in someone’s yard, yet the pavement of intersections is deep with cigarette butts.
Why the muddy pond bottoms bear more aluminum cans, than rocks.

Or, why the road’s edge in front of my home is free from trash, while this field down the lane is scattered with beer bottles and the ditch full of discarded tires.

Is it because if no one catches us, it’s ok? Or, are there different rules for our behavior toward someone’s personal property versus “vacant” land?

Because every acre is someone’s property, even public lands.
And, as humans, the impact we leave upon this earth far outweighs our stature in it.

A Moment in Time

There are images that remain in my mind, filed in a special place, remembered for the impression they left upon me. Not a thing of particular beauty, but a moment that has escaped the ordinary.
So precious and rare, that even at the instant it occurred, it is known there will not be another like it.



The wooded ravine behind our house is home to a family of deer, walking the creek bed in all seasons, browsing leaves in spring and summer, hidden against the fallen brown of autumn. On a winter’s snow-covered backdrop, they become visible. And spend afternoons resting as a group, dotted upon the opposite bank.

Several years ago, they spent an afternoon there; while we, inside our house, looked out, pleased that the warm sunshine and still air would soon be welcoming spring. From time to time, one would stand and resettle herself a few yards to the side or start a game of tag with another young doe, bounding in circles, returning to rest. For the better part of the day they stayed, rooted to that spot, comfortably safe.

As evening approached, they rose to move on—all but one.
Her head gracefully laid back, the large doe that led them to this spot lay still, in the midst of her family, reclined in the sun. One by one, the others went to her, tentatively investigating her quietness--sniffing, nose-to-nose. They seemed to hesitate—unsure whether to stay, or go.
Then, slowly walked off into the woods.

Her body was still warm as I touched her—though her eyes were closed, chest still. Not a mark hinted of any trouble—perhaps she’d simply grown old.
Exactly when she’d died that sunny afternoon on the bank, we weren’t sure. But I wondered if she’d known her moment would be soon and brought her family to this spot to stay with her.

Over the next few days, we watched as her family returned to her side, with each pass through the creek bed, lingering there, sometimes resting with her, as they had days earlier.

By springtime, her body had returned to the earthen bank.



The path is worn daily, by deer seeking food, the cover of brush, the safety of the woods.
And behind the sycamore, is a perfect resting spot.