Changes
by Gene Hill
I hear the sounds of the night in my travels; the love songs of owls. I hear the thunder of lake ice as it grows thick; the graveside mourning of coyotes. I hear the snow-crust pattings of rabbit feet as they waltz under the eyes of the man in the moon; the bark of the fox who's listening too. I feel the wind pushing me to test my strength. I hear the old trees fall when their time comes to lie down.
I see the first Christmas rose that works its way up through the snow. I see where the bear has left its den to check the clock. I see where the mink and the muskrat have met over a pink spot in the snow. I know who sleeps, who walks by night, who thrives and who does not.
I see the rivers being hidden, the mountains turn to ice-cream cones. I see where the deer hunger, where the elk lets winter turn him into raven food. I hear the wind asking the weak to rest in its cold arms.
I am there when the wind softens and lets the river run. I see the first trilliums appear and wonder how they know. I watch the trout slide into the sunlight and fling himself into the air like a speckled scythe. I hear the gossip of mallards telling the world that it's spring...as if it didn't know.
I shiver as the yellow fingers of lightning pick through the woods. I believe when the thunder tells me that I have no place to hide. I wonder if this might be the last sound to boom against my ears. I am as frightened as a mouse under a circling hawk.
I watch the river seizing tons of rock and trees and whatever else stands in the way of its need for more running room. I watch a pool die and another being born. Where there is a waterfall drilling solid rock, there I am. The whispering of a spring makes me want water, and, like the thirsty animal I am, I stretch out, belly to the ground, and drink, watching the reflection of the sky--for something.
I smell the swamp digesting what it swallowed a thousand years or more ago--birds with leather wings and burning eyes fly still, in my imagination. I inhale the fragrance of skunk cabbage, May apples, and the wild rose--all in one breath.
I stare back at the questing eye of the woodcock I surprise having breakfast. I am fooled by the dragging wing of the grouse as she lures me from the spot where half-a-dozen walnut chicks lie--not quite as still as she would like. I see the doe nuzzling twin fawns to their feet--still glistening wet from where they swam all winter long. I see the silly-looking buck trailing velvet from his tender birthday antlers.
A sullen, most disinterested skunk leads her string of self-miniatures. She does not acknowledge my applause. The Canadas make a quiet honk to be sure that I have seen what a wonderful thing they have done--a battleship at each end of a line of toy boats.
A pickerel stares at me with angry eyes, bravely keeping herself between me and the little unseen inches in the weeds. I look for my favorite at each turn of the river: a brand-new moose all eyes, all ears, all legs, who always looks as if he could come out and play but Momma won't let him.
I hear the silence of possums. The small talk of bitterns and herons. The thrashing of the heavy bass and the tinkling of the minnows they're herding. Tree toads telling tales about their size. The bullfrog saying he's the boss. Voices from everywhere--and again the mallards telling us it's summer...as if we didn't know.
I watch the brooks and lakes get down to their everyday business. I study the willow branch I stuck in the earth last year and see, with pride, that it likes it here. I regret the loss of the hollow ash that had so often shown me a wood duck. I roll a rock in the water, hoping I have made a home for a brookie.
I know where the best watercress grows, where the bee tree is, and sassafras and persimmons and strawberries sweeter than kisses. Elderberry, partridge berry, and bittersweet all grow in the garden that is tended by my friends.
I save a quill or two from the molting geese, count the smaller ones, and note that there are five instead of six. A blue heron stares me away from his fishing hole. If there is an eagle or an osprey, I will see it. I practice my off-key whistled imitation of the Baltimore oriole as one flies by. I hope he's flattered; not because we sound anything alike, but because I think it's pretty. I practice my bobwhite for the same reason--with the same result. I quack at the mallards, who keep reminding the world that it's autumn...as if it didn't know.
The small raccoons are starting to act serious; walking around all bent over, looking guilty about being caught stealing mussels from the brook. The once-spotted fawns are now the color of cider. The geese no longer honk for my attention. The ospreys have gone. The muskrats are building up the roof. My brook-trout rock is almost covered with water. The pheasants are quarreling over the bedrooms in the meadow roost. Now the quail call is only a lingering postponement of sunset. I hear the elk whistling that there must be more elk; the brown trout running for the creeks to make more browns. The apples are all gone except for the one or two on every tree that forgot to drop.
The doe taps at the ice for her morning drink. Frost makes the meadow squeak under my feet. The evening feeding flock of geese flies a little higher than it used to when it sees me. The beaver are doing more night work--just in case. The last picking goes on; the cornfield is gleaned; the beechnuts are almost all gone, and the possums eye the one last withered persimmon.
The hunter's moon and the northeast wind make me feel wilder. I walk more softly and stop more often. I watch the buck's neck swell as he bends over the sumacs to polish his splendid antlers. There is passion and urgency in the air and I smell it. The mallards are wary and softer-voiced now. They are telling the world that winter is coming on...as if it didn't know.
I see and hear everything. I am everywhere. The wilderness and I belong to each other. I am one of its animals. I am one of its hunters.
