A shrew'd time of year #phenology

This has been an interesting month so far. Yesterday, one of the dogs and I encountered grasshoppers and a snake. Today, scurrying down the gravel road was a northern short-tailed shrew. At least that's what I think we saw. If the dog had had her way, my chance for observance of the critter would have been much briefer, but a tug on her leash interrupted her efforts to grab and swallow, whole and live, the dark grey creature. I'm far from an expert on small furry four-legged beasties so don't assume this was a confirmed sighting but what we saw fits the description pretty well. Seeing one on the road, however, is one of the last things I would have expected. Maybe it was hunting grasshoppers?

pear tree surrounded by five whitetails, 2014

Photo by J. Harrington

Now that we've mentioned hunting, firearms deer season opens this coming Saturday. Last year and the year before, the pear tree's fruit and the deer population seemed to be in much better shape than this year. We haven't seen any whitetails or turkeys wandering around for quite some time. I'm not sure why. There has been an increase in pickups and SUVs cruising the local roads, and I expect it may get noisy about legal shooting time on Saturday, but maybe not. If the deer we haven't seen just aren't around, it may be quiet.

ice covered local pond, November 7, 2013

Photo by J. Harrington

I don't know if you remember, but three years ago, the local ponds were starting to get ice covered during this first week of the month. If anyone can suggest references on how to think about the "normal" seasonal variability in a state like Minnesota, sort of bracketing phenology, please add a comment. Much of what I see deals with daily averages for temps and precipitation instead of any sort of distribution by day or week.

Ex Libris

By Eleanor Wilner

By the stream, where the ground is soft

and gives, under the slightest pressure—even   

the fly would leave its footprint here   

and the paw of the shrew the crescent   

of its claws like the strokes of a chisel   

in clay; where the lightest chill, lighter   

than the least rumor of winter, sets the reeds   

to a kind of speaking, and a single drop of rain   

leaves a crater to catch the first silver   

glint of sun when the clouds slide away   

from each other like two tired lovers,   

and the light returns, pale, though brightened   

by the last chapter of late autumn:   

copper, rusted oak, gold aspen, and the red

pages of maple, the wind leafing through to the end   

the annals of beech, the slim volumes   

of birch, the elegant script of the ferns ...

for the birds, it is all

notations for a coda, for the otter   

an invitation to the river,

and for the deer—a dream

in which to disappear, light-footed   

on the still open book of earth,   

adding the marks of their passage,   

adding it all in, waiting only

for the first thick flurry of snowflakes   

for cover, soft cover that carries   

no title, no name.

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