6:16 a.m. (sunrise two minutes earlier than yesterday). 9 degrees, wind WNW 2 mph. Sky: Mount Ascutney juts into a thin facade of pink, engineer-straight from east to west, a fleeting gift from a shy sun. Elsewhere, blue jay colors, mostly shallow islands in an expansive sea, clouds obscure a lean moon, withering like night. Permanent streams: worn tracks, fresh thoughts, decibels turned up, the ice turned down. Less water, less freight. Wetlands: long, white-rimmed clouds hanging above a seemingly idle marsh. Pileated drums, laughs and then falls eerily silent. Red-breasted nuthatches pick up pileated slack, morning chorus from both sides of the road and across the barren marsh. Pond: laced with fresh coyote tracks, surface firm but squeaky.
Two chickadees, a war of whistles from an invisible (to me) edge of a demilitarized zone. One starts, the other finishes. Barely a pause. Two-note song, an intraspecies catnip. All disputes should be resolved with music. Mine would be straight out of the late sixties, mostly Dylan, the Byrds, the Beatles, the Loving Spoonful. Joan Baez, a close second to chickadee as my favorite spring soloist.
Forty-eight hours out, I still think about the bobcat, locked in my mind's eye, padding across the snow, passing through the alders, a gray ghost on long legs. A noiseless, solitary sojourn. Cat not meant to be seen—a shadow hunter, restraint bordering on austerity. Wait, wait, wait and pounce. Dogs don't share my bobcat enthusiasm . . . but they do obey memory’s priorities. Sitting at the viewing site, biscuits on their brains while I wait for the bobcat. Thursday, when bobcat jarred the bleakness of early March, time froze, substantial like the marsh itself. My breath crept; my heart raced. I had waited nearly half a century waiting for a bobcat. Sadly, twenty-years too late to tell Linny . . . so I notify our boys, very, very soon Casey, son on the edges of fatherhood, will understand the joy of storytelling, the pleasure of showing and sharing, the wonder of seeing the world through virgin eyes. The landscape of learning. Bobcat flicked my switch, turned my old eyes youthful. Opened me to the nation of slow thoughts, more aligned to the pace of the planet . . . much like a baby's smile.
The bobcat miracle! Ahhhhhh.........
Ah, Joan Baez--she was the reason I tried to learn guitar, when I heard her in concert in San Diego in 1963, I never cared much for "popular" music, as a child or the '59's--but when I heard that silver voice, it was magic. And still is. Here's a delightful story about the Joan Baez Martin guitar (start at 6:15--she's such a wonder).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaCG8DQyASw
I'm glad the bobcat is staying with you and that it "opened [you] to a nation of slow thoughts." These intersections with the true mystery of the world are so rare--my only such moment was sitting in a stream when a group of emerald damselflies came and covered my extended bare arms. 40 years ago, and I've never forgotten.