It was a classic mid-winter morning, with a dull, light grayness reflecting off the cloudy sky and the neighborhood scene unenthusiastic in its muted colors. Though last night’s dusting of snow had already melted on the streets, most of it held on tightly to the dormant lawns. With temperatures barely above freezing, the damp air seemed much colder, capable of snuffing out a fire, easily dissipating a body’s life. But I had already spent too much time in the house this winter. So, to see truly what the world had to offer, I ventured out.
Soon a train’s whistle loudly rang out from the north part of town, and in my mind’s eye, I could see its massive engines pulling a string of graffiti-covered cars past Macomb’s downtown depot and Forgottonia Brewing. A semi-truck along East Jackson Street roared and grunted its complaints as its driver shifted through the gears. Distant crows called and a momentary Carolina wren’s song caught my attention. What was it doing, singing on such a day? But after walking a block to Killjordan Creek and Macomb’s Compton Park, a chill remained, with any new internal warmth quickly lost to the wind. There were few hikers and dog walkers on this particular morning, and I liked it better that way. Still, I picked up the pace, even as I wished to linger.
At the far end of the park, I crossed the creek at South Pearl Street, and, much too soon, began heading toward home. But here I took special notice of the creek’s natural meanders, with repeating patterns of curved collapsing banks opposite areas of alluvial deposition, which park managers attempt to limit—this inevitable tendency of all flowing waters. But this is what I look for on my walks: the unmanaged, natural processes, behaviors, and interactions, even the smallest examples.
Killjordan Creek at Compton Park, Macomb, Illinois.
At a private birdfeeder near the park, I saw a black-capped chickadee cautiously dart in on a flash, grab a seed, and then quickly fly off to shelter within a neatly trimmed ornamental shrub. All in seconds. They are fast and wary. The feeder and seeds were, of course, provided by the homeowner; but as a species, the chickadee’s essential behaviors are innate, successfully honed over the millennia by trial and error—even, but especially, the wariness. For the survivors, that is.
As my block came within sight, a quick movement caught my eye: a Cooper’s hawk, predator of birds, landing on a lower branch of a pin oak tree. And then I noticed all other birds were scarce, keeping a low profile, quiet. A few days before, this very hawk, most likely, aggressively pursued and caught a dark-eyed junco that sought refuge in our backyard quince bush…next to the birdfeeder. The hawk kept grabbing into the bush with its powerful talons. Then, a slightly misjudged countermovement, and the junco was no more.
Serious business in the neighborhood. Parents driving their kids to school and special events, bringing them back home; folks going to work and back, on shopping trips to the grocery store; the regular house-to-house mail delivery; a UPS truck, a FedEx truck; garbage collection every Thursday; clearing snow from roads, driveways, and sidewalks; walkers with their dogs; a chattering fox squirrel as I walk past; keeping bird feeders filled. The routines of everyday living.
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