I hoard these moments now. I didn’t used to. Everything has changed. I don’t count on others seeing what I have seen much longer.
Yesterday morning I thought one of those obscure farmer’s ponds had broken through its embankments and was rushing down a road deep cut between two fields, tearing it up as it surged. It was so loud and sudden that for a second I actually thought, “I hope no cars are coming up. They could be in trouble.” The dogs had stopped with me and were listening.
They came over the edge of the ridge high above us, slingshotting between big tulip poplars in waves, one group of the mass settling, the other sliding into the shape-shifting throng. Thousands of grackles. Their line was at least one hundred yards long.
I wasn’t thinking transcendence. They did not take away my brooding thoughts about the country. They didn’t glow with any otherworldly meaning. They flew against a flat gray sky. We stood below in a raw, invasive dampness. I did stop thinking for however long they flew and roared — 20, 30, maybe 40 seconds. I was just there. That is enough.
When we returned to the car, just before I turned the ignition, they settled above us, around us, circling us with that sound, and as a car makes a great blind, I rolled the windows down and we watched. They were close enough that I could clearly see their wonderful yellow eyes and black pupils. The dogs sat, quiet, still and watched with me.
Earlier in the week I saw two foxes, their red black coats thick as smooth wool blankets, chasing each other back and forth in a horse’s paddock. Another time that week, playing with the dogs in the yard, I glanced up at the trees around us, a continuous habit, and saw the Cooper Hawk’s silhouette, slim and unmistakable. He had not visited our feeders for months. I think he saw me dialed into him and he took off, doing the hawk dip, tilt and rise and spreading those great wings.
I lock these moments in. Now more than ever. Everything has changed.
