From the Urban Wilderness

For weeks, I’d been seeing white wood shavings all across my tiny back yard. I’d look up into the trees wondering where it was coming from, but could see nothing. I thought I might have spilled them while lugging wood, but no, I hadn’t lugged any wood back there in a long time, not since this year’s leaves had so totally carpeted the ground.

After awhile, it occurred to me that the small bright slivers of wood could only be the product of a woodpecker’s labors, but again, I could see no sign of one having been anywhere around. What’s left of the maple tree that toppled over during an ice storm a few years ago seemed untouched, it’s jagged end grayed and weathered.

Then, on my way back from the potting shed one day, I saw it: a neat round hole perhaps four inches in diameter bored into the decaying wood at the top of the amputated trunk. An auger or large drill bit being controlled by the most skilled of craftsmen could not have done a better job of it, and I stood there wondering when all this had transpired, for I’d never once heard any tapping or knocking going on back there.

Was the wood so soft that it produced no sound as that insistent beak pecked away at it? Did the bird do its work while I was away or asleep? I’ll never know, and now my wondering involves what sort of creature will take up residence in that neat little hollow.

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As late as last week, I heard what was most likely the last loon of the year. It was early in the morning on a particularly mild day, and I slid open my bedroom window to hear the wistful call. Loons have quite a varied vocabulary. They emit a loud yodel as they fly over from pond to pond, as well as their classic “On Golden Pond” trill from the water’s surface, and the nocturnal haunting hoot not unlike an owl’s. Then, too, they sometimes sound very much like seagulls, and I lie there imagining one rising itself up to its full height above the water and announcing its presence to the world and to other loons.

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A hawk nests close by during the spring and summer. And each year, I’m thrilled when a young newcomer soars low between the trees, asserting its domain over the smaller creatures. Hawks are difficult to identify, as many species share very similar characteristics. While there’s never any mistaking a blue jay or a cardinal, it’s always a challenge to match the right attributes with the right hawk.

Once, I saw it swoop down among the trees on the upper side of my yard, snatch a chipmunk, and fly away with it. The animal kingdom is not always the stuff of fairy tales and nursery rhymes, for there is a harsh law out there that often sanctions the death of one creature in order that another may live.

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Muffin the cat was quite enthralled one day last week with something she saw through the living room window. When I joined her there, I saw that it was a lone turkey pecking at the ground through some dry leaves I’d raked into a pile. Unless they’ve strayed or fallen behind their flock, turkeys are rarely lone visitors. Sure enough, a peek from another window rewarded me with a view of the rest of the group-at least a dozen of them and all hens-nibbling at bird seed that had fallen from the feeder. A few flashes of my camera, and they dispersed, trotting over the bank and following the deer path into the woods.

I found it fitting that I saw them now, of all times, and thought of the early settlers who feasted on their ancient kin while giving thanks. As they wandered away, I whispered my own words of gratitude, for their quiet unobtrusive visit to my yard, for the gift of living here in harmony with this woodsy place, and for the opportunity to share its wonders with my readers.

I wish you all much to be thankful for.

— Rachel Lovejoy can be reached via e-mail at rlovejoy84253@roadrunner.com.