The Woods Are Quiet
It is quiet in the woods at this time of year. The wind seems muted;
the leaves, its playthings of summer, have fallen, and it has only the
spruce needles or the poor, dry skeletons of an occasional beech to
tease into occasional sighs. Underfoot, the ferns and bracken have
crumpled; in this season of unusual wetness and relative warmth, they
lie sodden and rotting underfoot. Even on mornings of frost, such as
this one, they seem to have no substance. Nor do the dead branches and
twigs.
Sasha and I set out into the quiet world this morning. It had snowed
lightly last night - only a dusting, but, for once the ground was
frozen and the faint traces persisted along the paths and old roadways
that I elected to follow to no particular destination. This is usually
the case in these morning rambles; this morning I found myself drifting
off toward the west. Sasha, of course, had her own interests to pursue.
I noticed that she seemed to be following a scent and presently I
detected the trace of a fox. It had been drifting off in the same
direction that we were following, hunting into the slight west wind
that I had noticed when I first left the house.After a few moments, she
determined that it was too far ahead of us, and she directed her
attention, first to a squirrel that elected to flick its tail at her,
and then to a partridge that exploded from under a spruce branch.
In the distance, a Blue jay called, and another answered from further
along the ridge off to the north. I have several friends who consider
the call of the jay on a morning such as this in the same category as
others hear funeral bells; to them, the jays seem to be announcing the
end of things. For myself, they suggest that the pulse of life has
slowed, but it is still beating. A raven drifts on an updraft along the
same ridge. A small flock of chickadees flit quietly through the
undergrowth, and I spot a small woodpecker with them. Life is present,
it seems, even if it is quiet and inconspicuous.
I spot a deer track in the trail ahead of me. It is probably not much
more than an hour or so old. Like Sasha's fox, it seems to be about its
business - and I realize that it is not likely that I will spot it this
morning, because it has drifted off to the south and downwind of us -
and very aware of our presence. That is fine by me. I am content to
know that it is around. It occurs to me that I haven't seen moose sign
in awhile; perhaps tomorrow or the next day, I will set out in another
direction, to a place where I have found them in the past - just to see
how they are doing.
I am now entering Mama Black Bear's domain; on several occasions over
the past spring and summer, we have encountered one another around
here, but I suspect that, by now, she - and perhaps her cubs from last
winter, have burrowed down for the winter. I really don't expect to see
too much sign of her, or of the racoons that also frequent the
vicinity, for several months. I wish a little thought that they are
warm and secure as I wander on my way, heading back toward the house,
now - and the rest of my day.
Yes, the woods are quiet. Some see this as the dead time of year, but I
think of it merely as a time of rest. Slowly and quietly, the pulse of
life continues to beat - and I am content to see the small signs of
that, once again, as I contemplate my own sense of peace after another
enjoyable morning ramble.
