Date: 11/17/20 7:50 am From: Ted Levin <tedlevin1966...> Subject: [VTBIRD] November 17, 2020: Coyote Hollow, Thetford Center
6:42 a.m. 30 degrees, wind SE 0 mph. Sky: the sun sneaks into position
behind a thick bank of clouds, fissures and holes brushed by silver light,
a faint, uncluttered blush in the east . . . more transitory than a mayfly.
Permanent streams: spills over and around stones, miniature cascades, a
rejoice of babble . . . a soothing, auditory banquet. Someone needs to
listen to streams; home for the indefinite future, I'm perfectly suited for
the job. Wetlands: color and sound muted, not a single flyover. Somewhere,
in an unseen pine(s), a tweezer-billed chatter, red crossbills out for
breakfast. Pond: a mishmash of ice, unconnected panes and shards, snow
flurries bouncing on the ice, more ball than crystal, some stick, some
melt, a seasonal seasoning.
A female hairy woodpecker works a dead pine, gentle taps as if loosening a
jar's lid, chips of air-cured bark float down. Both red-breasted and
white-breasted nuthatches call, nasal notes repeated, both monotonous,
red's clearer, higher, and shorter than white's—a head-cold serenade. In
the mid-nineties, when The Traveling Wilburys released their first album, I
strived to recognize the voices of Tom Petty and George Harrison. (Bob
Dylan and Roy Orbison were easy.) Nuthatches are like that, at first: short
and nasal versus shorter and more nasal. Pausing, I listen to
gravity-defying tedium. The dogs, bewildered, a pair of clueless canines.
Many years ago, when I studied wildlife biology as an undergraduate, our
class subdivided Delaware county, Indiana, into a grid system. On
designated mornings, I drove my grid and counted roadkills—raccoon, red
fox, long-tailed weasel, thirteen-lined ground squirrel, and so on. Back in
class, we used a formula (long since forgotten) based on the number of
roadkills to index each species' population.
I don't think that formula applies to DOR pinecones. Since late August, a
shower has littered my walking route, cut and left by red squirrels. Most
of the cones are gone now, retrieved by squirrels; a few pulverized into
the dirt road, a sticky, white resinous stain—a reminder of the occasional
overproduction in the natural world. If I need further proof that 2020 is
the *Autumn of the Pinecone,* I listen for lingering crossbills and watch
the red squirrels attend their own cone caches and raid their neighbors',
lots of helter-skelter rushing and whirring voices like tapedecks run amok.