Photo by Mari H. Hall

Solstice Light

The pond
appears frozen
in the deep shadows
of pines
that stand
like sentinels
against the dark sky.

I play
the sun up
fingers stroke strings
one string at a time
as the sun touches
the tops
of the pines
and then bathes
the snow
in winter's
first light.

Two notes
paint new colors
and then three shine bright
before a full chorus
of crystals
brings forth
the new day
on this one morning
in a multitude
of mornings
each one a note
in the sound
of creation.

It is not
the sun rising
that is miraculous
each day,
but that
I am
Alive
in this sliver
of time
to watch
the first light
in this dance
on the ice.

Field Notes

December 14, 2009.

I wear orange so I won't get shot today. I am startled by two hunters' tracks. I am not used to human trails in my territory. I wonder if the animals can tell the difference between the hunters and me. I wonder about my own impact on the life of these woods. Do the creatures alter their ways because I am here, or am I just part of the life of this place?

I am drawn to a kill. A dead shrew. It's strange that most of the animal is still intact. It looks as though some predator played with it and then discarded it. Most animals would have devoured the whole creature. I examine the tracks. They are canine tracks. They are larger and more splayed than typical coyote tracks. They also wander all over the place. A coyote is generally more efficient in its use of energy. I find a scat. It is full of dog food. A domestic dog has been here. Another stranger in this habitat.

I cross the outlet of a beaver pond. It is running high today. A raccoon has crossed here before me. I follow it to the downed tree trunk where I like to sit and watch the pond. The sun is strong. The snow is melting. I am disoriented by the snow fleas and the chickadee that sings a mating song. It is spring in the woods today.

From where I sit, I see three beaver lodges. Two of them covered with snow in the midst of the frozen pond. The beavers have been busy at the third. There are tracks all over it. Sticks and mud are piled on top of it. I have a good view of it now that the cattails have been beaten down by the snow. The ones that remain are puffed with down and ready to burst.

I leave my perch and make my way through the cattails to the edge of the marsh. The snow is heavy and wet like spring snow. It gives easily beneath my snowshoes. A thicket of black alder with its red berries reminds me that it is December and winter is still ahead. I pass through a stand of laurel and a spider, flying through the air, lands on my pants. I watch it as it puts out feelers and explores this new territory. It climbs onto the spores of a cinnamon fern and I move on into the tall white pines.

There are middens of pine cones everywhere. The red squirrels have been busy preparing for winter. We all have our rituals. The squirrels, the beavers, the raccoons, and the spider. My firewood is stacked and I have chocolate in the cupboards. It is December and winter is still ahead.

Hunting Season

A man was shot
in my woods
yesterday.

He said,
"Some asshole
thought I was
an orange deer."

The stillness
of my morning
is shattered
by this dance
of predator
and prey.

There is a stranger
on my paths
today.
Will he pause
beneath the bear tree?
Will he watch
the otters play?

I see the figures
drawn in caves.
I hear the drums
that call the men
to chase.
The fires burn.
The meat is hung
and winter's cold
is staved.

We eat.
We live.

The bobcat,
fisher, fox,
coyote, otter
mink and man
are partners all
with deer and mouse
squirrel, rabbit,
weasel, hare.

We eat.
We live.

I see his tracks.
He is my buck.
I know his eyes.
I know his bed.

There is a stranger
in our woods
today.

I hold
my breath
and wait.