Paying Attention
Posted by Susan and Denny Wright at 4/1/2008 6:53 AM 
Categories: Community Supported Agriculture (CSA)
Categories: Community Supported Agriculture (CSA)
Paying Attention
I
woke on Friday morning, and the landscape was covered with snow, the
kind of snow that can signify the waxing or waning of winter. The
boughs on the spruce were covered with a white blanket and the netting
on the chicken run was nearly dragging on the ground under the weight
of it. When I opened the door, the spectacle of the newly fallen snow
seemed to cleanse the sterile brown landscape that was created by the
mud formed earlier by the melting frost in the soil. The mud permeated
everywhere, including our house. The view of the unblemished white
landscape could have perfectly set off any Christmas morning, but
something about the scene did not match this illusion.
I
looked around, and as I took in the scene, a breathtaking one for sure,
I realized that there were clues all around me that indicated that this
was winter in its last throes. A gang of red-winged blackbirds
challenged me immediately as I left the house. If this were Christmas,
they would have long packed up and moved out of the area. Two sandhill
cranes cried out in the morning air as I made my rounds to collect
maple sap, yet another clue that there was nothing to fear in this
snow. As I looked up at the one of the trees that I was collecting sap
from, I noticed the swollen buds, filled with the hope of spring and
the nourishment of energy stored many feet below the surface that I was
walking upon.
As
I gazed down near the last tree in my rounds, I noticed a young robin
shivering in the snow. He was a young male who probably hatched late in
the year as indicated by his small size. The migration must have
exhausted him, and then to land in the middle of a snow storm, he had
about all that he could handle. I reached down, and took him back to
the house where I fed and watered him. Once he warmed up, he began to
gain some of his spunk back. I left him in a box to warm up for the
morning. When I got home in mid-afternoon, he had escaped, showing his
desire to return outdoors. I caught him and released him outside. The
temperature outside was near 50 degrees, and when he flew off, he
lighted on a branch of our 250 year-old oak tree. For a few minutes he
announced his presence to the world. Then like the snow of the morning,
he left. Apparently, he could not wait for spring any longer either.
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