The River Landing

As the Crow Walks

 

“Some days I’d like to be him, that’s my dog.”— From the song Dog Days by Edward David Anderson

 

The outside world has not been a friendly or welcoming place for a long time.  And with the middle of winter yet to arrive, I’ve already had enough of the cold, damp days.  So I find myself hunkering down at home, in a bunker-like mentality, increasingly leaning toward living, in the words of John Prine, “inside my head^a.”

        Time to get lost with a big, fat novel about a pre-historic love triangle or maybe give Melville’s Mardi another try; look up once in a while to maintain the inner fires and not much else.  They can’t get to me.  But how wrong that is.  For in the space of a few weeks last year, a virus that originated on the other side of the world, traveled the distance, and arrived in our small, obscure western Illinois town, and stayed.  Will it next enter our home attached to the mail, on a pizza delivery, or through some other route when our guard is down?  There is no reason why our household should stay exempt. 

        Chaos surrounding the recent presidential election has given rise to rumors of the power grid going out, food hoarding, gas lines, more businesses closing and throwing people out of work, and, like the original COVID panic earlier last year, bare shelves in the grocery stores where toilet paper used to be (the first response, it seems).  Is it possible that rioters and looters could run amuck down our quiet small town street?  I’m reminded of Isaac Asimov’s classic science fiction story Nightfall, where an alien world with multiple suns only experienced the night sky once every 2,000 years; and when that happened, society went insane at the sight…then promptly collapsed.  What would I do if an out-of-control mob began attacking our home?  It won’t come to that, I assert, answering my own question.  But should we still plan for the worst?  We have enough toilet paper to last for a month; and we’re on city water, so I think we would have water even if the power went out.  Next priority:  What about our aged mothers living alone in faraway towns? 

        Lacking suitable answers, I return to my books and only glance out the front window every once in a while when someone walking a dog passes.  I enjoy seeing the different breeds, and they all look so happy, wagging their tails, sniffing the ground where other dogs have been.  But then a different kind of movement catches my eye:  a crow sauntering past along the curb, occasionally picking small items from the ground, presumably something edible, like seeds.  A hard life it must be to find a day’s sustenance from bits and pieces in the street, enduring the long winter nights on a tree branch through the cold, snow, and rain; and yet, anticipating the coming breeding season.  And thriving, at least so it appears.  Life going on as it always has.

^aFrom the song The Lonesome Friends of Science by John Prine.

 

Falling Ice

The other night, a red fox passed through our backyard.  It barked a few times, sounding a bit like a cat trying to sound like a dog. The next morning, I saw unmistakable fox tracks in the snow among numerous rabbit tracks.  And for the next two days, I often thought of the fox and of another, earlier time when my wife Julie and I saw a fox at our Quiver Lake cabin along the Illinois River valley. 

        We were relaxing on the cabin’s screened front porch on a late summer afternoon, quietly looking out over the bluff side and lake, getting ready to head back to our home in Macomb.  Reluctant to leave, our attention was unfocused, trying to absorb the scene one last time before packing up the car.  So when a fox ran across our view, quickly out of the brush and then back into it, we both looked at each other as if to ask, Is that really what we just saw?  The sighting made the entire day stand out against an already unusual year (2020):  warm memories to reflect upon during cold winter days.  The recollection made me want to visit the cabin again, even though it was shut down for the winter.

        So on the first good day following the weekend’s winter storms, I quickly dispensed with the few errands that demanded attention and headed for the Illinois River valley, nearly an hour away.  The town roads and rural highways were clear, but the surrounding countryside was blanketed in a continuous layer of snow and ice, and the exceptionally bright morning sun glared downward, reflecting off a glistening plain of white in every direction as far as I could see across the barren farm fields.  As I approached the Illinois River bluffs, the thickness and pervasiveness of the ice cover increased.  Tree branches drooped from the weight; fallen limbs lined the roads; and with temperatures just above freezing, ice and melt water literally rained from roadside trees, every now and again crashing down in great cascades upon the vehicle’s windshield as if I were traveling through a melting glacier.

        At the cabin, raccoon and squirrel tracks ran up and down our cement walkway leading to the sandy beach far below.  But fox tracks, I did not see.  So I focused my attentions on the blue sky, the half-frozen Quiver Lake, and distant floodplain forests, all covered in ice, across the lake and at Chautuaqua National Wildlife Refuge.  A group of Wilson’s snipe, which had been foraging in the seeps along the water’s edge, took flight as I emerged from beneath tall cottonwoods; across the lake, a bald eagle perched near the top of a tree; Canada geese and greater white-fronted geese lounged on the ice; and within minutes, a group of common mergansers executed flawless soft landings in the water near the geese.  I could have stayed there all day, reveling in this classic winter scene, but cold breezes off the lake were already beginning to penetrate my thin clothing.

 

Quiver Lake with trees glazed in ice, January 5, 2021

 

        With an extra jacket and hood, I ate a sandwich on the cabin’s front porch, much quicker than I normally would have.  My bare hands became colder by the minute, but I enjoyed listening to the honking geese, searching for an elusive fox, and watching ice fall from trees.  And with every crystal changing from solid to liquid, with every drip, it was one more step toward spring, still many weeks and winter storms away.