Where has all the wildlife gone, long time passing...

Late yesterday, as dusk was turning to dark, my dog, SiSi, let me know she needed to go out. We headed downstairs and to the patio walkout door. I opened it. She dashed out and through the wedged open screen door. (We don't want to let it freeze closed.) As I looked out toward the far slope, the shadow light shone on three, maybe four, whitetail deer.

deer track in the snow

Photo by J. Harrington

The deer, at least the three I could see most clearly, stood frozen in place, six or more eyes on the dog. SiSi either failed to notice the deer or didn't care since they were 50 yards away through snow shoulder-deep on a yellow lab-cross rescue dog. The deer just watched for 10 or 15 seconds. Then the tension got to them and a white tail-flag went up and 12 legs, maybe more, bounded up the slope and into the woods at the crest. SiSi finished her business, sniffed around for moles or voles or shrews under the bird feeder, and hopped through the open screen door and the walkout.

There's no doubt in my mind that if Franco, the Better Half's border collie rescue cross, had been in SiSi's place, he'd still be trying to herd that small herd of deer if he had to follow them all the way to Cloquet. I'm hoping we haven't used up a year's worth of luck on this one episode. We waited 'til we were sure the deer had moved on before we let Franco out to attend to business.

turkey tracks in the snow

Photo by J. Harrington

The deer I saw yesterday were the first seen around here in many, many weeks. There's still been no signs of the local turkey flocks. I'm pretty sure that it's been only deer that have been tearing up the snow and leaves looking for acorns, although there may be some unseen turkey tracks mixed in. We live in patience and hope for a return to prior year's patterns of more frequent sightings of our neighbors. The good news is a pileated woodpecker showed up at the suet feeder yesterday morning. There was no apparent streak of red on its cheek so it was most likely a female, or the observer needs new glasses.

Snowy Night

by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

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