6:42 a.m. 30 degrees, wind SE 0 mph. Sky: the sun sneaks into position behind a thick bank of clouds, fissures and holes brushed by silver light, a faint, uncluttered blush in the east . . . more transitory than a mayfly. Permanent streams: water spilling over and around stones, miniature cascades, a rejoice of babble . . . a soothing banquet. Someone has to pay attention to flowing water. Home for the indefinite future, I might as well volunteer. Wetlands: color and sound muted, not a single flyover. Somewhere, in an unseen pine(s), a tweezer-billed chatter, red crossbills out for breakfast. Pond: a mishmash of ice, unconnected panes and shards, snow flurries bouncing on the ice, more ball than crystal, some stick, some melt, a seasonal seasoning.
A female hairy woodpecker works a dead pine, gentle taps as if loosening a jar's lid, chips of air-cured bark float down. Both red-breasted and white-breasted nuthatches call, nasal notes repeated, both monotonous, red's clearer, higher, and shorter than white's—a congested serenade. In the mid-nineties, when The Traveling Wilburys released their first album, I strived to recognize the voices of Tom Petty and George Harrison. (Bob Dylan and Roy Orbison were easy.) Nuthatches are like that, at first: short and nasal versus shorter and more nasal. I listen to the gravity-defying tedium, birds strolling down trunks. Canine confusion . . . the dogs have no clue.
Many years ago, when I studied wildlife biology as an undergraduate, our class subdivided Delaware County, Indiana, into a grid system. On designated mornings, I drove my grid and counted DORs—raccoon, red fox, long-tailed weasel, thirteen-lined ground squirrel, and so on. Back in class, we used a formula (long since forgotten) based on the number of roadkills to index each species' population.
I don't think that formula applies to fallen pinecones. Since late August, a shower has littered my walking route, cut and left by red squirrels. Most of the cones are gone now, retrieved by squirrels, or pulverized into the dirt road, a sticky, white resinous stain—a reminder of cyclical overproduction in the natural world. If I need further proof that 2020 is the Autumn of the Pinecone, I listen to lingering crossbills and watch red squirrels attend cone caches or raid their neighbor's, lots of helter-skelter rushing, their whirring voices like tape decks run amok.
"Someone has to pay attention to flowing water." Ah, that key idea--PAY ATTENTION. Marcel Proust said, "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes." And to really "see" and not just "look" takes time. I once sat alone in a brook while dozens of azure bluet damselflies rested on my shoulders and arms. It's one of the times I understood the word "blessing" in my non-religious life. Thanks for your careful attention, especially to sounds.--"a rejoice of babble . . . a soothing banquet." Took me right back to that magical bluet moment.
Marcel Proust