Waiting for Fox

I stare
at the frozen
pond
a blank
canvas
waiting
for the fox
to come trotting
across
the unmarked
snow.

I cannot
press a button
or click a mouse
touch a screen
and have it
appear.

I must wait
minutes, hours, days
perhaps,even a lifetime
before
one breathless moment
a figure
will emerge
from the shadows
on the bank
and trot
before
my eyes.

Coming Home

There is no fanfare
to announce the sun
only one cold squirrel
in search of food
and then a bird.

An otter slithers
from the water
shakes and slides.

A breeze stirs
through the morning
and then
the quiet
follows me home.

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.

Field Notes

I watch otters play as a merganser, with her ruddy hood, touches down beside the beaver lodge. The pond is still, but I listen to the high waters of yesterday's rain rushing through the cattails. A marsh wren flits through the thicket busily picking the shrubs for seeds. It is morning in the wetlands. The sun has called us out into this world where one hundred thousand Chinese workers rise from their dormitory beds to assemble ipods for seventy cents an hour while I sit and watch otters play.
In a world where everything is measured by its economic value, an ipod sells for three hundred dollars. The uplands around this marsh have been logged. Their value is in board feet. At one time sheep grazed here. Seventy percent of New England was fields until the market fell out of merino wool and the pastures became forests again. Tomorrow these woods may become renewable energy for biomass plants that consume fifteen hundred tons of wood a day. Economy determines landscape.
An otter, snaking in and out of the dark waters, herds a lumbering beaver towards its lodge. The beavers have thrived here after they were trapped to near extinction. Their pelts were once the preferred currency of the colonies until the market fell out of beaver hats. Today they are aquatic rodents that must be relocated because they threaten the preveailing economic activity. Their meat is prized only by fishers and coyotes. The price for their pelts is too low to offsett the difficulties of trapping.
Hunters come to these woods with their shotguns for ducks, turkeys, bears, moose and deer. These animals are managed. They have economic value. And now, the cattails have disappeared into dollar signs and the rushing brook has become an advertising jingle. Nobody knows how many otters live in this pond. Nobody knows the size of their range. They're here with their rolls and their slides. They eat the fish that no one desires. They play in this world where an ipod is more valuable than forest or a wetland.
The otters play as a woodpecker tap tap taps high in a pine and a flock of geese honks overhead on their way to warm lands. They play.