Winter, like an old friend, sweeps down on the northern country, blanketing us... teaching us about the holy circle of birth, growth, life, and death. Each breath is like a reminder of the ghosts surrounding us, each gust of wind howls across plains of brilliant white, bespeckled with black sod. I revel in the snow storms as I walk through the hushed streets. Each auto blissfully muted, each train accenting the chiming tree branches. In these dark mornings I take a few minutes, in church parking lots, and lift my head from my chest, breathe in icy air, and watch the snow cover the grime of this sullen town.
Animals are all around, life carries on in darts and flashes, fleeing the shadows and chasing the sunlight. The nightly crow, the industrious squirrel, and the proud seagull brace against the wind. The shock of the cardinal is the most pleasing, with his regal crown and black mask, flitting in between the grey-brown undergrowth. That seductive red seems like fire, like cherries, like velvet blankets against the monotone backdrop. The blue jay tries but can't match that passion. Cats and racoons scurry around houses, ever vigilant for a meal and a hiding place. Occasionally the feminine deer, like a ballerina, dances through the back lots and farm fields, pausing to stare in wonder at me, then dash away with the others as they dig under the ice to find grassy shoots. Huskies, at home in this clime, dusted with powdery snow, smile at me as I pass, as if greeting me like a neighbor.
There are times, in the country, when I see red tailed hawks. I sometimes wonder if there isn't just one hawk, a spirit guide, leading me through my day. Usually He is sitting atop a telephone pole, but at times He hangs in the air, ever subtlely shifting his tail and wings to remain perfectly still on a draft, reveling in the joy of wind and air. Once, while I was driving on one of my routes, pulling from one driveway to the next, a hawk waited for me to commence my ride to the next house, and fly to the next pole in front of me. I felt blessed and wondered at the great power of this bird of prey. I felt like I was playing a privileged role in a game of chase, and when it was over I felt a small pang of regret.
The strangest occasion happened a few winters ago. I was driving out Walbridge Road, towards those little, old, trading post towns of Curtice and Williston. Out there the farm land comes in patchwork quilts divided by punctuated stands of tangled trees. The land was dug out of old marshes and swamps, dug out by old Germans and Irish, reclaimed from ancient lake beds. The land is flat and the soil black with rich silt and nutrients, and it has been left to the heirs to those old Germans, left by the people of the ports and cities as gratitude for the ditch diggers and reclamation engineers. It was in one of these hollows, on a patch of road drifting with snow, in between tree stands, that I encountered a coyote for the first time. In the high desert country of Southern Idaho, along the Snake River Basin, I heard packs of coyotes singing at night, out along the vast reaches of fenceline and scrub. But even in that wild country they were notoriously fickle. Like a flash of light in the corner of my eye I would think I saw one only to find whispers. I couldn't imagine for a second that there were still coyotes in this old part of the world. Surely man has plodded upon this old ground for too long, taken too much away, and cut himself off completely for such a wild thing to still roam free? Wonders never cease. Out of the corner of my eye I saw this brilliant grey-black flash, darting toward my car like a bullet train! He was on a direct collision course with me and all I could do at forty five miles per hour was take my foot off the gas pedal. The wild dog closed in on the car, leapt across an eight foot wide ditch, and dashed in front of my car, across the other ditch, and onto the next field! It slowed down like an Olympic runner, shook his head and looked back at me. I was stunned! It was a game of chicken, good sport! Some old coyote trickster god reminding me that there is still play to be had, still wild life to be lived, and there are things we must do for no rhyme or reason.
What is the lesson? There is none. These animals aren't here for us. They are here, and we tread upon their grounds, impositioning ourselves, labeling them with our problems. They are, and we are not. That coyote was showing me something, though... That old dog was proving how strong he was to himself and to me, and I loved him for it! Until we meet again...
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