Green Woodpecker, Estampes
Green woodpeckers are common in France. But not so common that I’ve been able to see one in the ten days that I have been here. And I want to see one. Something about woodpeckers I find fascinating, and the names help. When I saw a three toed woodpecker (really, three toes?) in Maine, I was thrilled. When this past Christmas Peter and I saw a black woodpecker in the forest of Fontainbleau outside of Paris it was the highlight of the trip (not, as some might think, visiting Notre Dame…). So a green woodpecker was my goal for the morning as I rose at 6—the world still dark and quiet—and was out before seven. I walked south out of town, a winter wren singing to me from a bush that has taken over the courtyard of the abandoned house that once belonged to Francine. In the freshly cut field to one side I see a fox trotting my way. It’s tail is thick, a dark red, lined with brown. It doesn’t see me, so I stand still, and watch. I can tell what route it intends to take, out of the field, across the road and into the corn. So I pull out my camera and wait until it is mid-road. As I snap the photo, he becomes aware I am there, and picks up his pace as he moves into the corn and vanishes so fast.Why I Love a Storm
At six thirty in the evening my young friends Sasha and Liza knock on my door. I have a headlamp attached to my forehead to guide me in making dinner, something exciting like rice and beans. “We’re collecting food that might go bad and making dinner at the bar,” Sasha explains. The bar has gas burners so they can still cook. Many have electric powered stoves so they are out of luck. We are not supposed to have power for the next two to three days so things will no doubt start to turn in the fridge. It’s a great idea. But I have almost nothing in my fridge. So I take them out to my garden and give them tomatoes and chard, some basil. Who knows what they will cook up, but I love that what they want to do is feed everyone after a long day of wind and rain.Fox and Chickens
Francis Morlass arrives in the morning to check the trap he has set for the fox, which has killed a few of Odette’s chickens. The plan is to catch it in a have a heart trap and then shoot it. I’m on the side of the fox, of course. Not that I want it to take Odette’s chickens, but I want it to live, to thrive. So to rid me of my wild animal love Odette tells me stories of how destructive the fox can be. There was the time she came into the chicken coop and found all nineteen of her chickens dead. “A massacre,” she explains. I get it that tending to chickens every day would make me want to protect them, but more—they are worth something, as a meal for Odette.
Almost every morning on my walk I see fox. They work the freshly cut fields of hay. I stood and watched one stalk and pounce, all four feet lifting off before it landed on its prey. But so far the chicken-stealing fox is not trappable. He’s sprung the trap twice but has not yet been taken. I’ll continue to quietly side with the fox and publicly hope that Odette’s chickens are safe. Both of these things can be true.
The "Wonderful-Pitiful" song of the Henslow's Sparrow
Last Saturday, what first felt so lucky was the black bear. Peter and I were walking a wide path in the woods of Partridge Run Game Management Area near Rensselaerville, New York. The trees are thin but dense, so we were in a cool shade, at a higher altitude; the sun sprinkled through the summer-green leaves. In the shape-shifting light, a galumpfing creature took shape to my left. I first imagined dog, then realized it was too big, and dark. “Peter,” I whispered, as he was just ahead of me. I scanned for the mother. “No mother,” Peter explained. “This is a first year bear.” That is, this was the first year that the bear was on its own. It didn’t seem to notice us, 150 feet away. He wandered into the woods, then turned, showing us its long muzzle framed with brown fur. Its dark eyes. It looked at us, then swung around and on its way.