Before it was light, turkeys were calling from the ridgetop. I lay in bed listening and imagined a big tom strutting his stuff, tail feathers fanned out, turning in circles, trying to impress a hen who was pretending not to notice. The first hint of light was not long in coming and soon other birds were awake and forming a springtime chorus. The bright, cascading melody of a male cardinal, and the primitive jungle call of a pileated woodpecker cracked open the dawn with such enthusiasm that the forest seemed to come alive all at once.
Pine warblers, blue jays, and rose-breasted grosbeak, were soon calling out the boundaries of this season’s temporary domain. An ornamental sun smiling from the front wall of our home already has a nest of house wrens. The brooding mother can be seen looking out from inside the sun’s mouth. Their smooth, throaty song floats by our open window and seems extremely loud for a bird only four inches long.
Crows are awake now and sound like they have already started a game of “who can be the most annoying.” Of all the birds that sing in the forest on these early spring mornings, theirs is the only voice that refuses to blend in for chorus or harmony. But they are my favorite, and just like their bold, independent personalities, their song stands alone.
Pileated woodpeckers attach themselves to the sides of trees listening for insects moving under the bark. If they like what they hear they’ll hack away, removing pieces of wood the size of a man’s thumb. Usually, slowly and deliberately, like a man with an ax. This morning they’ve found a hollow tree they are really excited about. The pair has changed things up and the woods now echo with what sounds like rapid fire rounds discharged from a weapon of mass destruction.
These crow-sized woodpeckers are the largest in North America. They are loud, sassy, and very beautiful. The holes they make in trees provide homes for other birds, reptiles, and small mammals. We enjoy having them as neighbors, and it’s never a secret when they’re in “the hood.”
Chickadees, nuthatches, and tufted titmice are the last ones to join in, but the first ones to scold outside our window if the bird feeder is empty or if the gray squirrels have taken over.
Some mornings, as many as eight squirrels scatter when I open the door. This infuriates me, because they gobble up every ounce of food and leave nothing for the intended recipients. At times, I’ve considered taking action against them that would not be compatible with my present “try to live in harmony with everything” attitude. But sometimes, I want to hate those little rodents, just like I do the rabbits that mow down my vegetable and flower gardens despite my best efforts and considerable investment in rabbit fencing. I am forced to remind myself that I built our home on land they already occupied. What they take from us must be considered just compensation.
Some of our neighbors haven’t arrived home yet. Indigo buntings, humming birds, scarlet tanagers, Baltimore orioles; their songs are still absent from the woodland repertoire. Though not for much longer. In spring, every day has new arrivals. If they aren’t coming in from the air they are coming forth from the ground. I saw a box turtle this week. Snakes will soon be active.
Lemon balm and mint are already thick in the gardens. Fruit trees have blossomed and seemed to have escaped any killing frosts. Asparagus spears are shooting up, rhubarb is ready to harvest, raspberry canes are leafing out. Every morning the forest and our gardens have something new to show us, to teach us.
In the mountains spring arrives late. A forty-minute drive down to lower elevations and spring is two weeks ahead of where we are. Everything is in full bloom. Even the oak trees have buds leafing out. Up here, we’re just getting started.
Mourning doves coo softly from trees that tower over our home, coaxing me to fall back into a light slumber. A gentle breeze whispers through the pines, but far off a rolling thunder threatens the forest’s calm. The wait has been too long—at least it feels that way—since we were able to sleep and wake with our window open. Winters are too cold; summers are often too hot. Spring and fall are the seasons of open window sleeping. But spring is the most wonderful season.
Privileged as I feel to lie here and absorb all this music, all the beauty and energy that surrounds this bed and our open window, I can’t bring myself to lie here for another minute.
There are far too many things happening on the other side of the window that I want to be a part of. I want to welcome every returning bird, every unfolding flower, emerging butterfly, and sprouting seed. I want to find every hidden fawn lying in the tall grass, every bird nest in the branches of trees or on the ground. I want to know where the raccoons sleep during the day and where the sharp-shinned hawk sleeps at night. I want to know where the barred owls have their nest. I want to lift up rocks and turn over rotting logs so I can find every impossibly colored salamander that lives here. I want to find the black snakes in the forest canopy and the box turtles plodding along under flaming azaleas. I want to sit by the stream and listen to her song, watch the dragonflies dart here and there, backwards and forwards. I want to find the old woodpeckers’ hole in the sycamore tree that overhangs the water’s edge and see if the wood ducks are nesting there again this spring. I want to sit still and silent in the tall grass at the edge of the bank and watch the great blue heron spear a fish. I want to climb to a ridgetop, watch the mountainside turn green with new life, and be carried down into the valleys on a vibrant swath of emerald.
I would like to float in the air with a turkey vulture, then dance with a west wind. To squeeze every ounce of energy, wisdom, and grace from this season. This season that passes so quickly. This is my desire, my quest. If it were up to me, I would never leave the forest until June. Then having been totally saturated in “wildness,” completely filled with witnessing countless miracles and confident that I could keep all her mysteries a secret, I would emerge, my clothes and beard smelling like a garden after a storm, wet leaves, wildflowers, and pine needles.
There are ghosts who live here. They travel in herds of four or six; often there are many more. They are gentle and quiet. You can look right at them and not see them, unless they move.
Sometimes, when I drive down our road it frightens them and they leap into the woods, white tails flashing. Then they disappear. They seem to dematerialize before your eyes. One day, my wife was coming home, and a herd was in the woods just off the road. She would have missed the gathering, but a shaft of sunlight had found its way through the forest and illuminated the sides of their faces. The beauty of that moment took her breath away.
I want so many things this time of year. But mostly I want to remain aware, and I want to remain grateful. I don’t know how many spring seasons are left to me. I don’t know what a spring would be like if age took away even one of my five senses. But this morning, through an open window, I will experience them all.
So eloquently written! I am almost 71 and chose to work among nature in the great outdoors for near 40 yrs now for all the beautiful reasons you write about, it has always fed my soul. Glad to have found your work.
Beautiful reflection Robert! Thanks