And Spring Slips In

　

According to those who monitor these things, spring arrived at 6:29 this morning. For days now, I've been listening to the birds, noticing how different their songs are as they sing about the passing of yet another winter into memory. Oh sure, we might get a few more flakes or maybe even another full-fledged weather "event." But as the earth turns her face toward the sun, anything the clouds send down from here on out won't create much of an impact and will be gone much more quickly.

　

It's interesting to note that, while I wasn't up at that time this morning, I was awake, listening to a loud symphony of crow music outside my window. I do sometimes get up a bit sooner than that and toss some bread out, and it seems I've created some sort of ritual in the process, as it doesn't take long for the crows to swoop in from somewhere to get at the scraps before the turkeys and gulls and squirrels do. But beyond that, I also heard a cardinal, and the tufted titmouse was finally singing its spring notes.

　

Not long ago, a snow-removal crew shoveled all the snow off the roofs here, and they bent my shepherd's hook over in the process. At the time, the ground was still frozen solid, so I couldn't do anything about it. Yesterday, though, I was easily able to bend it back to some measure of straightness, as the soil it's standing in was very pliable and cooperative. I also shoveled some of the snow away, exposing more of that soil in the process. And now, that whole area is bare and dark brown against the surrounding banks, a welcome sight for these winter-weary eyes.

　

One thing is certain: if the temperature does approach 50 degrees F. today, as predicted, there will be plenty of melting going on. The trees are also ready to leaf out, as is evidenced by the fat swollen buds on the ends of the maple branches across the parking lot. I read somewhere that the maple sap stopped flowing once the weather turned cold again, so hopefully the tappers will be in business again now that the days are warming...

　

...which they can't help but do as the earth turns her face toward the sun and continues to do so at the rate of 1,000 miles per hour until what snow there is no longer stands a chance.

Our Daily Bread

Through the years, I've made it a practice to dispose of any stale or moldy bread that I happen to have by tossing it outside to the birds. And during that time, I've come to also be familiar with what is known as bird bread. From doing this for so long, I've also come to learn which avian species most appreciate my handouts and which couldn't be bothered. And I've come away from it with some interesting facts as well as a storehouse of memories watching the birds actually going at it when several slices of bread fly out a window or the front door and onto the grass.

　

While some might argue that there is indeed a method to it from the point of view of what's easiest for the birds to deal with, I've found that it really doesn't matter. If they're hungry enough, which they almost always are, they are prepared to deal with everything from small pieces to entire slices without much ado. The important thing here is that the bread is there, and they don't seem to be too bothered by what form it happens to be in.

　

Here, on a Saco, Maine (USA) side street, the property lends itself well to distributing the bread either from the front door or from a rear living room window. There are screens on all the windows here, and I have intentionally left the screen off one rear window off all winter so that I can toss the goodies out there. Not only do the birds benefit, but the squirrels are often up for a bread meal as well, so nothing is ever wasted. And that's not even taking into consideration the nocturnal animals, such as raccoons and skunks, that clean up anything that might be left behind while the rest of the animal population sleeps.

　

During the nearly two years I've lived here, I've had the honor of sharing my daily bread with crows, wild turkeys, blue jays, and seagulls. The latter are the brutish scavengers that swoop in aggressively, having spied, sometimes from a great distance, the incongruous objects on the lawn before heading this way to clean up. And it doesn't take them long either, for they are perfectly capable of swallowing multiple slices of bread whole, their necks swelling in unbridled and bestial gluttony. Meanwhile, the crows, the very ones who are the first of a morning to send out the call that it's breakfast time, stand off to the side, hoping that some tidbit is overlooked, which rarely happens when the gulls are involved.

　

If the local flock of resident wild turkeys is present, some interesting confrontations sometimes ensue between the two larger species, with the turkeys running at the gulls in an effort to chase them off. That's not usually effective, though, as the gulls simply take to the air where they circle around until it's safe to land again. Following this feeding frenzy, there is usually not much left, but it's interesting to note that the smaller birds, such as juncos and titmice, manage to find some wee bit to eat, something too small and insubstantial for the larger birds to bother with.

　

To keep the smaller fry happily satiated, I've been known to stand at the kitchen counter breaking the stale bread up into tiny pieces fit only for them. Too insubstantial to be noticed by the gulls, they do appeal to the turkeys, which, like their other poultry cousins, subsist by spending vast amounts of time pecking at whatever the ground has to offer. It is only after that when the smallest species move in, undisturbed, to glean what is left with their small bills.

　

The old adage of "waste not want not" applies here, for indeed, nothing IS. I've been doing this for so long now that it no longer even occurs to me to toss a moldy half-loaf of bread into the trash. Instead, I automatically and instinctively take the bag to the door or window and start tossing. While nothing is wasted in the end, there is also much to be gained in the knowledge that I'm helping to get my feathered friends through another winter as I share with them each day "our daily bread."

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In the Hollis Woods

I have the great fortune for the next couple of weeks of house-sitting for my friend. Her property lies at the edge of a vast wooded area in Hollis, and it is here that I am once more able to enjoy the peace, quiet and serenity that are so crucial to my own survival. I sit on the screened porch and listen to the buzz of late summer insects plying the air with their song. Birds titter from nearby trees, tree toads trill from their clandestine places, and the setting sun casts long deep distinct shadows between the tall ancient pines that were here long before my friend and her late husband bought this wondrous place. Returning to the porch after getting myself a cool drink, I notice a large dark shape perched on a branch not 40 feet away. I realize instantly that it’s an owl. I creep back inside to get binoculars, but in what little daylight is left, I am not able to see many details, only that it has small horns and that its feathers are dark brown and mottled with white.



The owl sits there for some time, turning its head this way and that, and I know it is fully aware of my presence. Yet there it remains, vigilant for whatever lurks in the tall grasses below it. As I move to another part of the house to get a better view, it takes off, glides close to the ground, soars up into the branches of another more distant tree, and vanishes from my sight. After closing the place up and leaving a few windows open to let the cooler air in, I spend a pleasant night, lulled to sleep by sounds that are possible only in such places, only in such woods as these.



This is, and has always been, a magical place, from my friends' first tentative days here in their tiny cabin nearly 30 years ago to the present time when my friend now lives alone in what was to have been their dream home, a magnificent place of cathedral ceilings and breathtaking views that her husband would enjoy for only a short time. The phoebes know nothing of this, however, and each year, they return to their same nests under the big back deck, their tail feathers bobbing as they perch on a planter pole or low branch. The crows that guard this place have done so for ages and will continue to do so, insensible of the human drama going on in the space beneath them.



A thunderstorm comes over this place early on another afternoon, and the rain comes down hard and insistent as I sit writing. Despite the humidity, which has once again reached unpleasant proportions, I take my book out with me to the screened-in porch to sit out the storm. Mediocre by summer storm standards, it is nonetheless pleasant to feel its effects as the air changes. The rain falls steadily and the earth gives up her rich scent as the drops penetrate her dried and brittle shell. I sit out there until it passes then go back inside. I must leave in awhile to get back to my real world for another day or so, then it will back here for another few days to let nature have her way with me.



Such places as these are destinations along the journeys of our lives, oases toward which we yearn and that we spend our days struggling to achieve. But might it not be the journey there from which we learn our most valuable lessons? Might it not be the unexpected sights along the way that make the journey worthwhile? For all destinations become resting places after awhile, and there is always the danger that we may become complacent and think that there is nothing else to see or experience.


After leaving one wood and being given the gift of enjoying another, albeit for a preciously short time, I know now that each step I've taken since then has led me here, storing up the wonder and enchantment for me along the way. This is another culmination of sorts along my journey, another fleeting moment in time during which all that matters to me has come together in yet another wooded spot in a place that feels very familiar and right.



Any place that engages us the way this place does me sings of beginnings and births, of fulfillment's and endings, of secrets and things left to be discovered and felt. One layer of emotion curls back to reveal another deeper one, for that is what the woods do for us. They make us look into ourselves to search for the common ground that we share with all that is out there. To love where we are, no matter how humble or remote or forgotten, makes it home, and that is what this wooded place is to me at this very moment-home.


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Late Summer Musings (First in the Series of Summer Essays)

The afternoon light has grown decidedly different once again, penetrating these woods at a slightly different angle from mere days ago. It dances on the low pine branches earlier now, and bathes the low-hanging leaves of the witch hazel as it sinks behind the taller trees.

The cricket’s music has replaced that of the wood and hermit thrushes that never stay much beyond the end of July, and owls are dominating the night woods again. They regaled me one night last week with a full-blown hooted conversation that went on for several minutes until the participants decided to move deeper into the shadows where I couldn’t hear them anymore. I lay awake awhile listening, but all I heard was a dog barking.

I have always enjoyed the sound of a dog barking from a distance at night. I am somehow comforted while going to sleep knowing that someone’s faithful pet is out there alert to the sounds and smells and also to any danger that might be lurking. That same alertness is to be found in another creature as well, and one that most people would least expect.

Several years ago, I was sitting in front of the fire with a book when I heard crows cawing close by. That’s a common sound here, so I paid it no mind. After a few more minutes, though, I realized that their cries had intensified and that other crows had joined in the chorus. Their cawing was now at a higher pitch and more frantic, so I got up to look outside. I reached the window just in time to see a large fisher run across the yard under some trees not 40 feet from my front door. It scooted across the rock wall that divides my property from my neighbor’s and disappeared into the woods.

I noticed then that the crows had stopped and had flown away, and I realized that they had been tracking that fisher on its way through the woods. In a very real way, those crows had assumed the role of sentinels, their uncharacteristically high-pitched cawing their way of sounding the alarm that an intruder was lurking.

I had the same experience again just a few weeks ago, but this time, a coyote skulked through in exactly the same spot the fisher had. Like the fisher, it had disturbed the crows’ peace, and they were once again frantic to let someone know. A bit of research revealed that crows actually band together to intimidate intruders, which was surely what these crows had been doing as well.

And so it goes in these Lyman woods, not that far from the beaten paths that lead to busier places. Each day brings new wonders, new sounds, new smells, new simple truths to learn, and all that is asked of me is that I be cognizant and open to it, not judging, but simply accepting a way of life that was here before I was.

Today, one of my cats scurried off into the low brush and made quite a noise in the process. She’d disturbed something, so I went off to see what it was. Through the low branches, a small flock of turkey hens were making their way toward the deeper woods. I watched them for a moment, and like my cat, gave them wide berth and headed home.

Tonight, I’ll listen again for owls. Raccoons will most likely visit the back porch and leave their muddy paw prints across the picnic table. And maybe, with any luck, that dog will bark in the distance, letting me know that all is well in these dark and wondrous woods.


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