“BEING THERE”

Tonight, as I often do, I will borrow my friend Brenda Jones’ magnificent images of the short-eared owls of Lawrenceville’s broad preserve, the Pole Farm, to give you some sense of my Tuesday evening experience.  Thank you, masterful Brenda!

Short-eared Owl white coloration

Too often, these days, I need to remind people, “All that it takes, for evil to happen, is for good people to do nothing.”

I’ll paraphrase that reality to urge NJWILDBEAUTY READERS: “All that it takes, for miracles to happen, is for good people to be OUT THERE.”  

So many hectic nights.  So much ghastly weather.  Yet, Tuesday I dashed in the door at 5:30.  I threw my work clothes onto the floor and left them there; jumped into outdoor gear and went straight over to the Pole Farm.

There was sun and no rain and I hadn’t seen the short-eared owls since the day before my February meniscus tear last year.

Would they still be there, with all this inappropriate heat?  Would they be in the field I might reach in those few moments before sundown?  Would I recognize them?  Was I too tired from work to dash along the wooded path?  Would anyone else be on the observation platform to point out owls and harriers with hushed excitement, as last year?

Short-eared Owl wing swoop-look

Still on the woods-and-understory-framed trail by the red barn, I watched one slow thin shadow, the color of antique pewter, coast knowingly, determinedly along the reaped beige field to my right.  One warbler hopped about in a shrub, but light was no use in identification.  The shrubs that sheltered the small bird kept me from really seeing the raptor.

I made it to “Elaine’s Bench”, out-of-breath from almost running, weighty binoculars having beat a tattoo along my back.

There wasn’t another birder anywhere in sight.

But, across the reaped field, at the far tree line, that frieze that looks as though Lucy McVicker had drawn it with archival ink, two grey shadows emerged in tandem.  Low to the ground, completely at peace, circling, circling.  A pas de deux with wings instead of feet.  Raptors, but not hunting.

Short-eared Owl wingdrop

There was still enough light that I could immerse myself in the delight of their grey/white lustre.  The short-eared owls’ heads were the size of small grapefruits or large oranges.  I felt, more than saw, their intensely focused eyes.

The leisured circling continued, as though they were from a faerie realm, able to dissolve every tension of my workday, my deep concern over the world situation.

Short-eared owl profile Pole Farm Brenda Jones

A third ghostly floater emerged, low and flat and sure, from the far forest.  The circling two danced their way across the field and out of sight.

I’ve been told that they are not actually hunting in these pre-sunset moments.  That short-eared owls’ heads function as ears.  As they coast and turn those white disks, they are hearing mice and voles that will become their feast when dark arrives.

sunset bluebird Pole Farm Brenda Jones

No, I didn’t see bluebirds.  But Brenda did, at the Pole Farm.  They’ll be along any time now, as there are bluebird boxes hither and yon, on either side of the trail.

My flashlight proved nearly worthless, the sun had dropped so fast.  I did not remember not to step on the horse manure, now on the right side for my return.  I worried that my car would be locked in by an intense and righteous ranger.

Dashing back through the wooded end of the trail, I was suddenly deafened all over again by spring’s first peepers.   The short-ears had made me forget all about that raucous miracle at entry.

Miracles.  Always out there in Nature for us.  But we do have to place ourselves where miracles can happen.

And I don’t have to remind NJWILDBEAUTY readers, that the Pole Farm is a preserve.  That courageous people fought long and hard to save most of that land, to give it over to the wild creatures whose whom it rightfully is.  To be EVER VIGILANT in terms of advocating and paying preservation, stewardship.  To prevent PIPELINES!

Nature is essential.  We are part of nature.  In this Anthropocene Era, we ARE “The Sixth Extinction.”  We turned that around re peregrines, osprey, eagles and condors.

All that it takes, for evil to happen, is for good people to do nothing!”  NEVER FORGET!

Advertisements

Way of the Short-Ears

A new poem, imagining an owlquest later than this one — “Come with me…”

These magnificent images of short-eared owls, we owe to the superb fine art photographer, Brenda Jones.  You will see her masterpieces on the information panels at Lawrenceville’s Pole Farm Preserve.

Short-eared Owl white coloration

Short-Eared Owl of Pole Farm, by Brenda Jones

 

come, take my hand

wrapped well, and sporting headlamps

set out for pale broad fields

where ghostly ones rise each evening

from winter weeds

 

this sky’s occluded

–if there’s a North Star

I can’t find it

let alone Orion with his dazzle-belt

which may be good for all the hunting birds

 

the wind’s dropped

so it might be easier for them

to listen for the rustle of voles

 

parking just beyond

the preserve’s locked gate

we thread our way by wooded paths

known so well by day

 

each with our own hand light, tonight,

seeking owl eyes

 

CAROLYN FOOTE EDELMANN

January 2017

 

short-eared-owl-profile-pole-farm-brenda-jones

Short-eared Owl at Sunset by Brenda Jones, taken at the Pole Farm, Lawrenceville

 

Slouching toward tomorrow…

https://i0.wp.com/www.shorpy.com/files/images/31229u.preview.jpg

Adams Statue, Washington, D.C., by Augustus Saint Gaudens

Popularly known as “Grief”

Great Consolation for Eleanor Roosevelt in Major Family Tragedies of Her Life

But IS there any consolation for me, for us, for environmentalists, for the Planet?

***

I have so many beautiful new nature experiences to share.

Marvelous examples of fellowship, usually wrapped in nature.

Luminous times – whether with the short-eared owls of the Pole Farm just now, or savoring Epiphany’s King’s Cake with Janet Black and Jeanette Hooban, when Janet was out here from Manhattan for her Epiphany birthday celebration.

But I cannot rhapsodize.  Not even Nature herself blinds me to the horrors of tomorrow, January 20, 2017.  Doomsday to me; and, I fear, to the Planet itself, to Mother Nature herself.

My new pictures will remain in their files

Recent epiphanies will not be shared.

Instead, I offer the only poem that comes to mind — written in 1919, on the hem of the First World War — which I always thought was looking back into time — which turns out to have been prophecy.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?