ShareThisBy KEN WEBER
Friday, November 17, 2006
The hawk is a surprise, but I almost expected the other discoveries of this walk: the empty oriole nest, the abandoned hornet colony, the busy little songbirds, the signs of otter activity, and the gleaming, swaying grasses. They all belong here.
An old farm carries an extraordinary appeal in November. I'm pulled to places like this every fall, after the splendor of October and before the snows of winter. Now, the overgrown fields, the quiet lanes, the enduring stonewalls, and all the rest, provide a mellow atmosphere that fits the mood. When the sun is shining and the wind is not too sharp, these places are ideal for unhurried wandering.
But a little wind is okay, maybe even a bonus. I like to see the silver-headed grasses dance in the breeze. These grasses, barely noticed all summer, now resemble waves, or at least the great wheat fields, as they react to every whim and whirl of the air. The wind also helps in constantly rearranging the fallen leaves that skitter down the farm lane. Soon, the leaves will settle into sodden heaps along the stone walls, but right now they are still restless, still shifting, still running before every gust.
I pause beneath a tall maple that shaded this lane back when farmers and cows walked here every day. Last fall, I noticed an oriole nest up there, a woven pouch swinging from one of the highest branches. There is no nest in that tree this year, but one is hanging in another tree on the opposite side of the lane. Did the same orioles return? Were they successful in raising their chicks?
Bittersweet vines, displaying strands of bright orange berries, swarm over the stone walls. Bittersweet can be a nasty vine when it gets a foothold in our yards _ it's almost impossible to eradicate _ but out here it looks right. Nobody is here to try halting its spread, and the birds probably appreciate all the berries.
Much of what used to be a pasture is filled with goldenrods, now brown, bowed and withered, and tattered milkweeds. The milkweeds are much more prominent now with their white seed heads shining in sunshine. A few more seed tufts drift away with each puff of wind. In August and September, these milkweeds and goldenrods attracted butterflies and bees by the dozens, perhaps by the hundreds. Now, that time seems long ago. The insects are gone, but the weeds are already supplying seeds for next year's butterflies.
I'm still thinking about insects when I find the basketball-sized hornet nest. It's attached to a low branch in a sapling. In summer, leaves hid the papery nest and its hundreds of hornets, probably our most feared insects. Hornets can inflict painful stings, but it's doubtful members of this colony stung anybody. These hornets simply spent the summer building the colony, providing for new generations, and then dying when frosts came. All but the queen; she is already hidden away somewhere, awaiting another spring.
An old path through the tall, tangled weeds leads to the farm pond, now shrinking with the invasion of cattails and other plants. Nearly a third of the water's surface is covered with floating leaves, some from shoreline trees but probably just as many blown down from the woods on the hill. Fresh scat on shore shows an otter visited recently. Good! An otter was here last fall, too. I don't know how long it stayed; maybe until ice shut it out.
I wander up the hill. Some of the oaks are still sporting maroon and rust-colored leaves, but I'm drawn to a golden-brown tree at the edge of the forest. It's a mockernut, a member of the hickory family, and the ground below the tree is littered with hulls, a few with nuts still encased. Last year, I didn't find any nuts under this tree. Some things do change; this is a good year for nuts and acorns.
I sit on a stone wall and just look. I'm watching white-throated sparrows and yellow-rumped warblers work in a brushy tangle when a hawk flies in. I see it coming but apparently it does not see me. It lands low in a tree barely 20 feet from my stone seat. The little birds drop down closer to the ground but continue searching for whatever they are seeking. A blue jay appears in the hawk's tree and scolds, but only half-heartedly, and quickly moves on.
The hawk is obviously a young one, a juvenile, judging from its speckled plumage: dark spots on a white chest and light spots on a dark back. I try to identify it but conclude only that it might be a red-shouldered hawk. It's a large bird, probably too big to be a broad-wing, another possibility. I'm not very good at recognizing young hawks.
Fidgety, the hawk turns all the way around on its perch, staring into the underbrush, probably looking for mice or some similar prey. It stays for perhaps three minutes, then flies off. The warblers and sparrows immediately act as if the hawk had never arrived. A downy woodpecker alights just above me and starts hammering on a limb.
All is relaxed again. All is as it should be.
