It's a little past five, when I finish up with the garbage and recycling, and head out back, to sit. I settle myself,with the blue and gray clouds slowly passing overhead, cloud cover really, and the distant hills of Leverett a ways away.
As, from my right, from the range, the Goshawk
swings down into the conservation field, calling out, calling again.
Recently, they've made themselves scarce, what with the raptor convergence , but I suspect that all the migrators have now left, and the Goshawk is simply calling out in case the five raucous crow siblings are about in bed yet . Calling out to say that yes, this is their neighborhood.
That yes, this is where their mate and their small one lived this summer.
And if they remain all winter, as they did last year, then it's yes, they are here for good.
They swoop down the field and land on a tall old maple, and I see them far off, perched on one of the top branches.
I'm imagining they're looking for dinner, looking for some mice who are scurrying about in the field, before dark.
And despite the evening cars passing by out front, as they circle around the range, and head back to their homes, I am struck noticing the sound instead of the winds picking up. Making all the trees all about sing. Their leaves dance in the breeze.
The front door closes, which I think is my beloved, who I have gently pushed pushed to go work out tonight, to go see their tribe at CrossFit, after being away for a bit.
I make him promises. I promise him better sleep, and less stress. I promise him the pleasure of their company. And so, I think, he goes.
I see one of the people who rent our cottage next door, walking their small dogs up and down the driveway. After our conversation about the coyotes coming by at night, to declare their territory, they who are from upstate New York, are not accustomed to these large wild canines.
They are uncertain. So no more letting their dogs loose as they run along the range,I guess. I think the real time a concern is January and February. The time of hunger. Of scarcity.
The native people, who had a village on this conservation field before me, took for granted the times of hunger. They filled and built their health, and then when the cold of winter began to wear upon them, they began conserving energy. Accepting. Taking cleansing herbs.
Tucking in, until the time for sprouts upon the first trees and plants again to appear. Before the snows melted away, and they could hunt, and grow once again.
Do you ever stand somewhere, and it comes to you slowly, the probable lives of all different species, who have been where you are now? All who have been born and lived and died in this neighborhood where you are?
Maybe it depends on the flavor of human you are. Maybe certain foxes do the same, certain goshawks, certain bears.
Maybe they sit in the cool evening breeze, thinking on all the others who have been, right where they are, before.
Recently, they've made themselves scarce, what with the raptor convergence , but I suspect that all the migrators have now left, and the Goshawk is simply calling out in case the five raucous crow siblings are about in bed yet . Calling out to say that yes, this is their neighborhood.
That yes, this is where their mate and their small one lived this summer.
And if they remain all winter, as they did last year, then it's yes, they are here for good.
They swoop down the field and land on a tall old maple, and I see them far off, perched on one of the top branches.
I'm imagining they're looking for dinner, looking for some mice who are scurrying about in the field, before dark.
And despite the evening cars passing by out front, as they circle around the range, and head back to their homes, I am struck noticing the sound instead of the winds picking up. Making all the trees all about sing. Their leaves dance in the breeze.
The front door closes, which I think is my beloved, who I have gently pushed pushed to go work out tonight, to go see their tribe at CrossFit, after being away for a bit.
I make him promises. I promise him better sleep, and less stress. I promise him the pleasure of their company. And so, I think, he goes.
I see one of the people who rent our cottage next door, walking their small dogs up and down the driveway. After our conversation about the coyotes coming by at night, to declare their territory, they who are from upstate New York, are not accustomed to these large wild canines.
They are uncertain. So no more letting their dogs loose as they run along the range,I guess. I think the real time a concern is January and February. The time of hunger. Of scarcity.
The native people, who had a village on this conservation field before me, took for granted the times of hunger. They filled and built their health, and then when the cold of winter began to wear upon them, they began conserving energy. Accepting. Taking cleansing herbs.
Tucking in, until the time for sprouts upon the first trees and plants again to appear. Before the snows melted away, and they could hunt, and grow once again.
Do you ever stand somewhere, and it comes to you slowly, the probable lives of all different species, who have been where you are now? All who have been born and lived and died in this neighborhood where you are?
Maybe it depends on the flavor of human you are. Maybe certain foxes do the same, certain goshawks, certain bears.
Maybe they sit in the cool evening breeze, thinking on all the others who have been, right where they are, before.
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