It was late spring, down on Moody Bridge Road, curling
confection that bypasses a deep stand of old Pine, twisting down hills and up
inclines, past contented horses and small hamlets of homes, then up across the
broad Hadley High Fields, where you can see so far, all along the small
mountain range and beyond. Where the wind is accustomed to coming along and
sweeping powerfully across the grasses and into the waterways and forests.
I was winding round
this bend in the road, when down by the stream I saw a Fisher Cat, dark
chocolate, long like a low ranging fox, with a thick luxurious tail. Furtive,
powerful, and sleek - it silently made
its way across the road, from one side of the water to the other, over a small
bridge.
So I pulled over,
and just watched them happen. They are so elusive, though far more commonplace
than in the past, being shoved by our multiplying, from the old growth forests,
into suburban lands. They are customarily dwellers of tall trees, racing along
branches and rarely going to ground.
They are perfectly
capable of taking down cats , raccoons and other small beasts with fervor,
their teeth something to behold.
When we first
bought our home here, up on the range and conservations lands that extend down
to the river, they would summer here.
Out in the early
mornings, it would scream the sound of a hurt animal, to attract small
predators to an easy meal. Only to give them the surprise of their life. The
big trick of the Fisher.
When we still lived
in Florence, it was Fisher capital of the land, with a particular row of trees
by a stream, down by the Arts and Industry Building, favoring the Sojourner
Truth Park in early mornings, as it raised its small fierce young, and preyed
upon those cats not kept in at night. They picked the small village clean of squirrels.
One night we heard
the tell tale scream, and, together with
all three of my kids and my husband, I went running outside. Woken fast,
my oldest grabbed a basketball as the first thing he laid hands on.
We stood beneath a
tree, where some small creature was screaming for their own life, and i yelled
to my kid to "Throw it! Throw it!" up toward the fracas, and so he
did. And down fell, unconscious, an adolescent raccoon, as we heard the fisher
take flight through the thick branches,
through the dark night.
We stood over the
small creature, me wondering if one more head injury was worth the save from
the predator, when the small one came to, shocked to see us all surrounding,
and took off into the underbrush.
We shook it off,
and stumbled back to bed.
So, when I saw this gorgeous creature crossing the
street, I marveled at their innate expertise at adapting, at staying alive. I
imagined them courting and mating. Bringing forth beloved young into the world.
It's so easy for us
humans to selectively and quickly demonize anyone and anything, that we fail
most times to realize what we have in common. With slugs, with fly larvae, with
snakes, and fishers. All God's children have a place in the choir type thing.
But they do, all,
have a place.
So I drove on up to
the tiny bridge at the sharp corner of a small piece of heaven. I got out, and
looked down into the newly grown and
newly rained upon undergrowth, leaning on
the old black railing, cold beneath my hands in the early morning.
I stood
there imagining that creature making their way back into their life.
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