Quiet in the autumn woods

C2

By Mike Lushington

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It was quiet, still, peaceful, mild. The air was heavy, still breathing of a tropical storm that threatened but didn't produce the forecasted winds and heavy rains.

Mico was off somewhere chasing with his buddy, the fox, who inveigles him into an enthusiastic chase just about every morning. I knew that I would see him again in ten or fifteen minutes, panting, tongue hanging out, a gleam in his eyes and, I swear, a satisfied, almost smug grin about his muzzle. In the meantime, I could listen to the almost silent little murmurs of a flock of small birds moving about in the tangle of dogwoods, pin cherries, and fireweed that made up the hedgerow in this spot.

In fact, I wasn't even sure that I was hearing them, but I knew that they were there, busily foraging for berries and the last of the fall's insects. A furtive movement, a rustling of leaves, a slight scraping of wing tips against branches - these are the tiny signs of fall birds that are engaged in their own business and that have no reason to draw any attention to themselves or their companions. Still, I waited and watched, figuring that, sooner or later, one of them at least would reveal itself. And so it did, just for an instant, but long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the tell-tale white throat of that familiar hedgerow sparrow. Then there was a second, largely brownish around its head and throat, but with enough of the same throat patch to suggest that it was a young bird, perhaps one of the second or even third brood that White-throats will produce in a summer hereabouts.

Then a voice — Ruby-crowned kinglets have a hard time remaining quiet for very long and this one, obviously a young bird again, just had to try a few notes. A little chitter, almost a buzz — the resident chickadee, the brains of the flock, perhaps reminding its young companion that the time for singing was still some months — and many snow storms — away. A glimpse of yellow — a warbler- perhaps a Yellow-rump or a Nashville — but too inconspicuous in the undergrowth for closer identification. And then, silence again as the little flock moved on. Crows and Blue jays in the distance bring me back to an awareness of the wider world and the beginnings of a questions — just where is that silly dog anyway?

Right on cue, I hear him galumphing down the path toward me, tongue hanging out, a gleam in his eyes, and a satisfied, almost smug grin about his muzzle. Things were unfolding just as they should on this mild, still morning in late September.