Contingency planning in the anthropocene

Yesterday and today, the dogs and I walked up to the pond North of the house. It’s a longer walk than we usually take at this time of year but with the warmer temperatures and lack of snow cover, we need the exercise. The ice cover on the pond is deteriorating for at least the second time this season. We’ll see lots of open water by the end of the week. If the general weather pattern continues, I wouldn’t be too surprised to see much of the Spring turkey hunting season to be a bit of a waste. Many of the hens may be bred, and the toms worn out, by the time hunting season opens in mid April. Or I may be way off base, depending on what the Wild Turkey Foundation means by “Unusually warm or cold spells may accelerate or slow breeding activity slightly."

local turkeys: early March past

Photo by J. Harrington

Then again, this being the North Country, we could be up to our armpits in snow by Valentine’s Day. I just don’t know what to make of it, but the dogs and I do prefer above freezing to below zero temperatures, when given the option, a very rare occurrence around here. We even got to enjoy approximately 49 seconds of sunshine today. More may be delivered later this week, or not.

One thing I feel relatively certain of: if I buy a turkey license, it’s likely to snow and rain and freeze and blow and maybe even blizzard. That assessment is based on the Spring weather we encountered in our younger days when we were know to join a few friends and hunt the birds in southeast Minnesota or South Dakota. We’ll see how the weather pattern plays out. I could be convinced to go trout fishing instead, or if the weather turns miserable enough, stay in, drink coffee, and read.

Turkey Fallen Dead from Tree

By Dore Kiesselbach

Startled from snow-day slumber by a neighbor’s mutt, 

it banged its buzzard’s head then couldn’t solve 

the problem of the white pine’s limbs 

with wings nearly too broad for a planned descent. 

Somewhere an awkward angel knows 

whether it was dead before it hit the ground.

Any sinner could tell it was dead after—

eyes unseen beneath bare and wrinkled lids,

feet drawn up almost as high as hands.

I loved to watch thistle and millet 

disappear beneath it in the yard.

As snow covers feathers that will still be 

iridescent in the spring I remember seeing 

a businessman take a dripping handful 

of pocket change and throw it down 

a subway grate beside a homeless man. 

The coins bounced and clattered, vanishing 

in the humid dark. The rich man said 

now you’re having a shitty day too. 

But it’s not a shitty day and won’t be 

when I retrieve the bird and walk it—

toes curling stiff from a shopping bag—

to a houseless scrap of oak savannah 

birdseed drew it from and dig it 

into deeper snow so what was hoarded 

by a man may by the thaw be doled.

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