The wild side

                                             

 We live on the edge between downtown and more wooded outer areas, and we are accustomed to bears and bobcats that keep the bird feeder and rabbit populations in check. We have seen many bears on our sidewalks and driveway, but alas the bobcat has stayed out of our view, although there are photos and videos of it in our neighbors' yards. Foxes too – they trot along the street, dangling breakfast for the eager young ones at home on the next block. Rabbits run rampant, and some even survive and preside over the yard with heft and confidence. Skunks saunter; chipmunks skitter; squirrels tantalize the dog. 

Niko the dog is a champion snoozer, but one morning not too long ago he came to instantaneous and maximum alert. Something was banging on a sunroom window. I easily saw the object of his attention. It was too big to be one of the wasps that chance across the sunroom doorway. And quite clunky as it repeatedly bashed into the window, trying to escape. And – there was a soft, sad cheep. I wondered if the cicadas had invaded our northeastern city, but closer inspection revealed a hummingbird, desperate to get through the glass, back into hospitable territory. Meanwhile the dog leapt excitedly at this new intruder: A welcome? A warning? Breakfast?

I tried to trap it with a glass and cardboard, our bee capture equipment, but I wasn't tall enough to reach it safely. I shouted for help, but the help did not hear my cries. I finally took a newspaper and wafted it away from the window; the bird went with the draft and, in an instant, was free and happy once more. That's when the help arrived.

Later that day the sleeping dog once again went from comatose to high alert in a twinkling, He stared out the window; I followed his gaze. A deer, a young doe, had come prancing up our driveway. There was no exit for her there; she stood and assessed her situation, and while my head was turned, she left as she came, unseen. I checked the front street but she wasn't in sight. I hope she quickly found her way back to the dingle across the street, safe with her mates.

So Niko had double excitements that day, but for me, the rule of three prevailed. Later that evening  as we strolled the yard for last outs, my eyes adapted to the dark.  A  lightening bug! Then another, and yet another. and more. Ten to fifteen, maybe more, blinking their way in the night, calling to one another, seeking company. I could have stayed another hour, caught in this world of  quiet and peaceful communication by light. But it began to gently rain and the dog tired of harassing  rabbits; we  retreated to the house and the day drew to a close. 

What do fireflies do in the rain? Do they seek safety? Do they continue their search for one another?  Do they pull up into a safe shelter and rest? Are they knocked senseless, even lifeless, by cannonball sized  bits of water?

Night after night, across the street, down in the dingle, the foxes and bears and bobcat and raccoons and opossums and deer forage and rest, planning for, hoping for, the next day. Up the hill,  at last outs, the lights survive for now, dependent on the season and weather. A bat has joined the evening sky. My hope is that it will prefer the mosquitos that share the yard and let the lightening bugs roam freely.  Maybe the bat carries a dim memory that fireflies taste bad and are poisonous. 

At any rate,  Niko and I are in love with these early summer nights, he with his nose down, checking out who has invaded his domain, and I with my eyes up, searching for the on-again/off-again bursts of light.  In spite of the rain, and surviving the eager bat, they are gifts that surprise and silently speak of wonder as daylight fades and takes us into the darkness of night. 

So here's to freedom for the hummingbird, home for the deer, diligence in searching out mates for the fireflies, and small glimpses of light shining through the darkness for us all.

February Leaves

I have never been very fond of autumn: light on the wane, cold advancing, color dimming. Not to mention, classes starting. So, while the conversational world is full of guessing when the peak weekend for fall color might be, I hunker down and count the days until the winter solstice, when daylight would begin tolengthen, sharing its promises of where it will take us.

My dog Niko and his friend Sunny celebrate an October rite of passage. They run and leap into piles of dried leaves, just for the fun of it, for the feeling of the sudden splash into another realm, hiding for a few seconds, and then popping backup into the ordinary world.  I know this feeling, because I did it as a child. For Niko and Sunny, though, there are also hidden discoveries, tennis balls in the leaves, and small treats to root around for and find (or not) as a proper reward for having a good time with friends. We humans play god to the dogs, with our rakes and tricks, showing them that there are joy and gems to be found and friends to laugh with

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But an interesting thing happened this late winter. Snow receded; the time not yet changed. I find I have fallen in love with dead and dry, curved and wrinkly leaves that have spent the last few months under the snow cover. I stroll the yard and the streets with Niko, and every leaf I see seems more eye catching than the previous, I pick one up, turn it over, admire it, and decide whether to bring it home. No offense, little leaf, I say to it if I replace it to its original resting place, it's just that maybe this is where you belong.

School children gather the brightly colored leaves of October; I have done that in the past with children, preserving the colors and shapes by dipping them in melted wax or ironing them between sheets of wax paper. No doubt, October reds and yellows do have a very deep allure.

But now, I have a bowl full of February leaves.  They are infinitely different in their size, shape, shade, and brittleness. Some are torn, broken, or stepped on. They are beautiful and interesting in their dotage; they have personality. I arrange them for portraits. Singly, can I get the twists and folds right? The color? In groups, which ones belong next to each other? Does it matter if they are arranged, tossed, or jumbled?

In the end, it is the variety of how each leaf shows at this stage of its life that I most admire. There is no limit. Like snowflakes there are no two alike. Like snowflakes, they each tell of their own journeys. And, like snowflakes, they will, in time, change shape, break apart, to share their essence elsewhere. Their atoms will move together in new ways, form new molecules, unite in new forms. Places to go, atoms to meet.

That part, yet to come I can imagine but future details are hidden. My job, at the moment, seems to be to take notice of unexpected beauty, as it lets me see into the secrets of other worlds. That's my way. Meanwhile, come next October, Niko and Sunny will engage once again in their own other worlds, leaping, and finding surprise treasures down in the depths and the dark of the leaf pile.

From the yard.