It was the Saturday before Thanksgiving and one of those fall days in which the sky is cloudless and deep blue as far as I could see. As I walked I looked up and was sure I was seeing into infinity, the great firmament of heaven Genesis speaks of in the creation narrative. On fall days like this, when the air has a cool bite to it, my senses grow more alert and although I may see nothing that I had not seen before, I see many as if for the first time.
I live on the outskirts of St Michaels. Its rural ambience is filled with ordinary wonders. On days like the one I recently walked, I reckoned that nature was just showing her stuff. I took an easy stride and enjoyed the show.
Most of the trees along the road had already shed their leaves. Of those leaves still lingering on the trees, some were russet, others gold. Nature’s blue sky had showcased the leave’s colors in the way artists present their works by placing them in mats and frames. Presentation is important.
In the middle of the road I saw a tiny wooly bear caterpillar. It was maybe an inch long. Wooly bears have a dark brown stripe and another stripe that’s more tan or orange. He wiggled along. Where he was headed, I have no idea. I do know this; he is looking for a place to winter. Hunkered down inside the bark of some tree or under a rock, he’ll chill out for the winter (actually freeze solid) and come spring he’ll thaw and be transformed into what we know as the tiger moth. Nature manages her transformations by helping her critters be cool.
Are Wooly Bears prescient? Some folk tales tell us that if the dark brown stripe is wide it will be a mild winter, and if it’s narrow, we’re in for a severe one. Such prognostications are about as reliable as the Farmer’s Almanac, but still it’s fun to just wonder which wooly bear may have hit it right on the money.
When I walk this road down and back, I clock about two miles. On my way back I saw the same woolly bear again, but this time just near the edge of the macadam. How does he know the proper place to winter? So tiny, so vulnerable and yet come spring he will warm up, and come to life as though he’d been born again. Nature is all about fresh starts.
Fall has distinctive sounds. Wind rustling fall leaves sounds different from summer ones. In summer, leaves are slightly moist and pliable and so the wind blowing them has softness to it, like a whisper. In fall the leaves are dry and brittle. As wind disturbs them, they sound crispy, like barely audible static.
As walked, I recall how some years ago turkeys showed up. I’ve counted as many as ten in one flock. Walking this same road one day, I heard rustling in the brush alongside the road. I stopped and listened. I saw four turkey chicks. I’d never seen chicks before. As I moved closer, mom darted out from the brush and headed for me. She scared me witless. I jumped back. She fussed some. She was intimidating me. It worked. Then seeming satisfied that she’d made her point, with her chicks in tow, she returned to the thicket.
When I came home I told my wife of the incident, adding, “The turkey was humongous,” while spreading my arms to emphasize its size. I told her the turkey attacked me and that she stood about as high as my chest. My wife smiled indulgently, as if tolerating a child’s exaggerations and I know she treated the account of my confrontation as a case of hysteria. Both she and my children thought I was only “blowing smoke.” Make sport as they will, I don’t care. I know this turkey was huge.
Once I saw a male turkey displaying its feathers. A little like the peacock, it’s a grand display. I understand that male turkeys spread their feathers to interest females. Seeing no other turkeys around I thought perhaps this one was an adolescent, preening himself while anticipating meeting his date for the first time. He was eager to make a good impression by adding a little fan fare.
I rarely see foxes but when I do, I’m surprised how nonchalant they appear. Raccoons, squirrels or groundhogs, when I catch their eye, will scamper off at top speed. Not the fox. The fox trots along unhurriedly; single focused, cool, determined, and appearing unconcerned about any of the goings on in the neighborhood. Foxes are sly; always up to no good. I’ve often wondered if they wiped out the quail population that once lived in the underbrush along the road. I miss the quails’ cheerful call “bob white.”
A neighbor told me that an albino deer had been spotted in our neighborhood, but I’d not seen her. That day, I saw her among her friends foraging in the field. She was the one white deer among the several brown and tan ones. I was happy to see that among deer there were no separate tables. Color did not seem to segregate her. There they were, acquaintances all going out for a bite together, just as it should be.
It was a good day for a walk.
Kathy Bosin says
I love this, George. Thank you.