Fellow Watchers, Fellow Mortals

Early last week, on a bluff above the Deep River, I spied a bumblebee. It was busily nectaring at the painted buckeyes growing thick in the understory. All around and above, the riparian forest rose to the sky, centuries old tulip poplars, ash and sweet gums sheltering the shrubs below. 

Completely absorbed in my task of comparing the large-hairy-all-over-with-a-broad-yellow-band-on-its-abdomen bumblebee with the large-shiny-hairless-black-abdomen-and-white-dotted-head of the carpenter bee, my eyes absently wandered up the trunk of the massive tulip tree on which I leaned and met the eyes of another...

What wonders have you seen, wise old watcher in the woods? 

Fellow watcher, what yarns could you spin?

Timeless tales; tales of bees and flowers, tales of rivers and trees, tales of mice and men? 

The immortal Scottish poet once pondered the plight of a mouse and a man...

"I'm truly sorry Man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle,

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,

An fellow-mortal!"

-Robert Burns, "To A Mouse" 1875

As  I anticipate your imminent departure, fellow watcher, the poet's lament is mine.

Seer of the Swamp and Forest

Seer; sage; surveyor of the deep, dark wood.

Keeper of the ancient forest;

Sharp, keen eyes of the swamp.

The dark of the moon is broad daylight

For the midnight watcher's perfect sight.

What's become of the forest;

What of the deep, dark wood?

Scant clues to the mystery

In the seer's deep, dark eyes.

Barred Owl. San-Lee Park.

Hoot Owl Karma

When I was a child, my family rescued and rehabilitated an eastern screech owl which had been struck by a car. It ate raw meat from our hands and watched our every move from its perch on the edge of my mom's antique upright piano. Soon it had recovered sufficiently to fly freely about the house. I vividly recall our emotional farewell...we placed her gently in the branches of the dogwood tree out front before departing for church early one Sunday. When we returned a few hours later, she was gone.

Before she left, we gave her the name Hazel, and she gave me Hoot Owl Karma.

Great Horned Owl with Prey

All along life's winding road, Hazel's kin have provided a soundtrack. The quavering screech of her clan; the "who, who, who cooks for you" of my friend the barred owl; and the deep, muffled, "who-who, whooo, who-who" of the great horned owl, un-rivaled ruler of the night skies.

In the wilderness, in the heart of the college campus or on the front porch in suburban neighborhoods, the hoot owl's voice, startling, thrilling, timeless as nature herself... reconnects us with an ancient, eternal part of ourselves.