6:44 a.m. 34 degrees, wind NNW 8 mph, howling and whisper. Pine trunks sway, branches wave, a landscape in flux. An orchestra of trees, the original woodwinds: creak, sigh, moan, yowl. A triumph of noise, enough to drown out crows and blue jays . . . a deed, indeed. Sky: at first, occluded, atmospheric topography, mostly blues and grays. In the east, a hint of peach. Spits tiny, bouncy, milk-white hail, which adheres to metal roofs and every low spot on the road, melts elsewhere. As I wander, clouds break-up, dividing into islands and archipelagos. Permanent streams: clearer and fuller than yesterday. Wetlands: marsh dreary, sky vibrant. Luminous, shape-changing clouds, with pink suggestions. Wind as a sculptor: smooths, tears, teases, welds. Sky empty of birds. Pond: yesterday's rain, today's ice. A stratified surface, two fragile layers. Wispy lines of hail, a cold smoke, drifts like hope. Then, stops. Momentary windrows, ephemeral stripes across the transparency of ice, until set in motion, again.
Red squirrel tends a cache of pinecones, twenty feet away. Bored with the morphology of clouds, dogs focus on the busy squirrel. Sit and stare, hoping it strays into the leash zone.
The other day, I picked up suet from the butcher counter at the Hanover Coop. No charge, which made it affordable. I hung the suet in the front yard cherry, out of reach of the dogs. Over the years, a parade of birds have visited the suet feeder: chickadees, titmice, red- and white-breasted nuthatches, blue jays, crows, hairy and down woodpeckers, red-bellied and pileated woodpeckers. A brown creeper, once. Friends have had mink, long- and short-tailed weasels, black bears, fishers, and a bobcat stop by for fat.
In the pre-Columbian Northeast, deer and moose carcasses—mostly leftover wolf and catamount kills—were a reliable source of suet. Today, coyotes and bobcats occasionally bring down deer . . . provision birds with suet. Cars provide, too.
Ten years ago, off the east bank of the Connecticut River, I watched six bald eagles on a deer carcass, likely a casualty of nearby Route 5. The eagles roosted in silver maples, picked at the deer for days. Then, decamped, leaving behind a sardonic skull and a rack of ribs. Several years ago, more than twenty ravens stripped a deer carcass on my running route; farther down the road, another carcass was claimed by a red-tailed hawk.
Through the years, I've noticed signs of many mammals feeding on deer and moose carcasses—red and gray fox, coyote, fisher, opossum, raccoon, bear, weasels, shrews of many species, even red squirrel. In fact, fishers often give birth close to a carcass, the meat and fat a windfall for the mother, who won't leave vulnerable kits unattended for long. Shortly after giving birth, when she comes into heat again, her new mate will also be rewarded with a free meal or two in late February.
Like a dead tree left standing for cavity nesters, a carcass in the woods is a critical resource. With deer season winding down, carcasses accrue in woods and meadows. Before you haul one away, consider who depends on the protein and fat . . . even the first wave of spring warblers visit stashes of suet, whether your feeder or the frozen ribs of a deer.
Tennyson said, "nature is red in tooth and claw", and many who have never seen "a carcass in the woods" shudder at the thought. Accepting the cycles of life is much easier said than done, especially in the modern world where meat (and suet) come in neat packages, with no red or tooth or claw in sight. How can we accept our own death if we can't witness to the passing of another life form? When our first dog died, my former husband and I built a pyre for him in the woods, and the eight hours we spent replenishing the fire was a tribute to the dog's loyalty. It wasn't easy, physically or emotionally, but we felt it was necessary--not for Smokey, but for us to accept the reality of the cycle which surrounds all life.