The inland hills.
The sun rose orange above the bay, and mixed sun and clouds persisted for about an hour or so, but then came the clouds. When I first glanced at the thermometer, I was surprised to see my new gray world had warmed to nearly freezing. By midday, a minor thaw was going on.
Sat handcuffed to my desk until mid-afternoon. Saw no crows out the south windows. Heard no chickadees from the back deck after lunch. Did follow another gray squirrel, though, along its limby highway and into its hole in the oak. Then got antsy about 3:30 p.m. and headed for Beech Hill. On the way, I saw a single herring gull soaring above Clam Cove—my first bird of the day.
I brought a couple leashes to hang from the kiosk at the head of the wooded trail; coincidentally, soon after, I met two leashless dogs. The snowy trail is well-packed by now, but the landscape remains white under the bare trees. Rounding curves and switchbacks I nearly lost track of where I was a few times because of how much better I could tell directions without foliage in the way; along more than one section, in summer, turned out I had my bearings wrong.
Route 17.
I stopped and took photos of the ice patterns cloaking the surface of the little brook. Toward the summit, peach-colored sun rays began slipping through the western overcast—but the clouds never gave. Below, traffic seemed heavy along Route 17.
From time to time, descending, I stopped dead on the trail and listened. I thought I might hear chickadees or crows. But I heard no birds, nor dogs, nor voices. I heard only the rush of traffic along distant coastal roads. Like tinnitus. Which got me thinking: the world rightly should’ve stood silent and still. That sustained whisper of rubber on blacktop should not have been discoloring the background. A century or two ago, at just this season, in just this spot, at just this time of day, I would’ve heard exactly—nothing. Pure, sweet silence. I would’ve felt the cool air, seen the peach-gray sky, tasted the approach of silent evening.
And at night, two hundred years ago, the sky would’ve overspread like a pool of ink, pierced distinctly by the brilliant stars. I believe we humans must have a poignant, ancestral memory of when things used to be so dark, so silent.
Nearing the parking lot, I came upon an older fellow looking up into the trees. He said he’d been watching an owl. Sure enough: a barred owl sat about fifty yards away, near the trunk of a hardwood up the rise. Too dark for photos, but I watched it fly away on silent wings.
Today’s List
1. Herring gull
2. Barred owl
Ice patterns.
Tags: barred owl, herring gull
