(Field Notes is a new section of Natural Presence, comprising short glimpses of the natural world in different seasons.)
In a day full of administrivia, even a quick walk in the woods can refresh your spirit and wake you back up to what it is to be alive. We’re due for a big storm tonight and tomorrow, and when my neck and eyes began to protest that they’d been screen-focused for way too long, I strolled over to the bluff near my house for a dose of the real world avant le déluge.
The Pacific Northwest paints winter in muted shades of gray, soft green, dark brown, with watercolored skies and trees sketched in charcoal. Spray from the whipped whitecaps of an incoming storm, along with low-scudding clouds, blur boundaries: Salish Sea, glacier-smoothed islands, rocky Olympic Peninsula diffuse one into the other.
I spent a while looking off into the blended distance while the air waltzed around me, not yet the gale force due tonight, but still fresh and gently swaying. I turned around to head back home, musing about how simple the scene had been in its tones of light and shadow, when a movement in a bush caught my attention. While at the bluff, I’d listened for our resident Northern Flicker deepening his nest inside a rotting madrone branch, but he seemed to be napping. I didn’t see any of the busy little juncoes and chickadees who usually forage in the oceanspray and salal, nor even hear the gull and crow regulars. So a wiggling branch stood out.
The creature in the shrub descended to the duff hidden beneath the shrubs and rustled there for several moments. Finally it revealed itself: a gray squirrel, not burying or searching for snacks of nuts as I’d seen in recent weeks, but collecting a mouthful of dried leaves to haul up a young Douglas Fir. Less than two minutes later, he was back down for the next load, then disappeared a second time into the high foliage. Up and down, up and down: hard work, but good work.
As placid as the place seemed at first, better attention revealed its midwinter aliveness. Even behind that overcast western horizon, the setting sun is moving inexorably northward, and the gradually increasing moments of daylight signal the impending busyness of leafing, flowering, fruiting, nesting. A few buds swell, a flicker chips a bit deeper into an arboreal burrow, a little squirrel buttresses his nest against a storm or for future babies. I go back inside to write and sketch and listen for the first gentle drops on the roof.