The body must have contrasts: stand and sit, work and crash, sweat and shower, bitter cold and sudden warmth opening us up as if we were cracking out of a shell. Tuesday was the day to be out even if one had to put aside the discomfiting weirdness of this being February 5 and almost 70. The Sun felt good on the skin.
At a soaking wet Crow’s Nest, the dogs ran ahead right past the folded note dropped and dry which I stooped and unwrapped. Many figures that made up a playful set of doodles but among them a ghost who looks less ominous than charming.
Last spring’s nests are up for the viewing, especially higher up, the small, closely woven ones you never see once the leaves emerge.
Then the kill sites began, all in a line, separated by 40 or 50 feet, all rings of dispersed feathers, tufts and primaries, from doves and juncos. No bodies. No blood. Just the signs in the grass. The feathers dry and ready to float with a wind.
I did not see a raptor anywhere near; some distance removed, only an enormous red-tail in the trees next to the parking lot. A four foot wingspan on him and a patient regal manner of moving away from our presence.
The dogs, as is their custom, ranged ahead and cycled back, their noses up for whatever scents the breeze carried or down in the turf picking up game trails and signs of who knows what that I will never divine.
Ghosts are about now, the traces of their passing all around. It is a good time to walk out into their country.
