~This
essay previously appeared in The
Gettysburg Review (2013).
The first day it
happened, it happened that I was walking over the iron truss bridge. It was
surprising what took place. A sky full of birds. It was the beginning.
When
it happened it was surprising. Walking as I was: slow, pensive. It was amazing
because soon as I reached the bridge – a massive flock soared overhead. The birds
wore small cheery voices. And I let many things occur in that moment. I let
myself think this was for me. I allowed full entry into the mystery of their
coming over my head like a sign. I saw many with their wings out and some with
their wings clipped to their sides and thought no matter what the wings were
doing, their flight was timed with my walking out of the old woods into the
open. Like pointillism, the sky was a canvas and these birds were dabs of
paint. Covering the blue in black. And this went on. It went on for a half an
hour I would say. The birds dotting everything. Blurring by like brush strokes.
It was dusk. They were heading east, to that yellow place where new days form.
The
cottage is near the iron truss bridge. It is set in a copse of trees. I have
been the care-taker for several months. It was originally built for a miller in
the early-1800s. On one side, a meadow stretches to where the tallest oaks rim
the grounds. It is said that in spring, over a thousand daffodils flower. But it
is winter, so I have not yet witnessed the meadow in bloom. Beyond the majestic
oaks is a path that leads to a footbridge, which extends over the mill race, then
continues to the large rock formations angling down to the Wickecheoke Creek.
The name means Big Water in Native language. Big
Water has ever-shifting personalities. I spend hours observing its dramatic
moods. When the rains come, the creek rises instantly over tiered rocks with
such force it can fracture them. The waterfalls turn loud, like Niagara. Likewise,
it mellows after a day or two of sun. Silt settles. The water turns clear. Then
one can see the bottom stones. Either way – gushing or lazy – the creek is
ever-moving, in an undetermined manner. It winds under the iron truss bridge
then curves round in front of a mill house across the dirt road. This stone
house was once a saw mill, built by early settlers, dating back to the 1730s.
When
Night brought morning, Morning brought another round of light. A shiny color of
sun. I woke to the sound of the flock over the cottage. Singing in high pitches
there are no words for. I cannot spell the noise they make. They seemed to have
come from the very horizon they flew to last evening. I questioned what made
them choose this place. In the alcove – which is my bedroom – are two windows
set close together above the bed, like portholes of a ship only they are
square, made of float glass. Wooden sashes divide the panes. I undid an iron
latch and parted the one. The birds were directly above. Sweeping low, stirring
the air they breathed.
And
later, I caught another flawless performance. The birds returned, signaling
dusk. Not a single starling missing. They came riding the wind in V shapes and
snake-like formations. When they left, they left me changed – standing in a
state of awe on the grounds. The world turned silent after. Dusk settled in
deepening layers. Day completed itself. Sky and ground became one entire color.
And so it was, our paths crossed two times a day – dawn and
dusk, the birds and I. They started to increase in numbers. Afternoons were
filled with songbirds: the yellow finch that stabbed at the feeder, bluebirds,
the vibrant red cardinals that played tag with their mates. While others
circled in silence over Old Mill: an occasional crow, turkey vultures or hawks.
One
morning, I woke to fog oozing between the trees and slipped on a bathrobe and
black boots, then hurried into the haze to photograph the woods in mist before
the sun burned it off. I climbed amongst the remains of a stone wall that had crumbled
down a ravine, and found the unobtrusive path along the creek where the Lenni Lenape
once walked. My body parted the fog and its milky air closed around me. I felt
myself as a filmy figure, deep in nature, mixed in with the faint trees. Never
mind the bathrobe and boots; there was no one to notice. In such a place, I
sensed the way of the first people, how they walked carefully as if tiptoeing
over a body. How the tiptoeing opened inside them, a tenderness for the earth.
I believe when they walked this very path, for miles, they listened to birds.
Bygone birds who first paved the blue roads of sky, the starlings now travel.
As
if winged creatures were carriers of light…. As if the starlings clutched long
shafts of sun in their beaks…. Morning spilt through the spaces between trees
and the oaks stood gold in that moment, gilded by morning sun. The grounds
illuminated. Upon the highest branches, their wiry tips, the birds shone as
dark singing leaves. I watched this from the square windows above my bed.
The
storm had been two days. The land had had enough. At dusk, I crossed the dirt
road to the embankment on the other side, where the mill house is. And saw how
beauty could swell to become a dangerous being. And stood while my senses flew
out, up over everything – hearing and watching, feeling, smelling, hearing and
watching the fast moving creek. The once clear water was muddied from the
storm’s stirring the silt. There were stories afloat about the creek’s carrying
the most unusual objects. I once listened to a local speak of Hurricane Irene, and
how she raised the water enough that it snatched an ornamental cow off a
property – flung it into the crook of a sopping tree. I have never seen anything
like an ornamental cow rushing along, but I have spotted the handlebars of a
tricycle and wondered about the child whose bike got broken by water. It made
me think of little Leor, a writer of eight, whom I met while visiting a school.
She wrote a poem for the birds she knows. Bird,
she wrote. Feel its heart / beating fast
/ feel its shine / as it flies / through the trees. / Bird. / I thought some
more about these winged creatures while walking to the iron truss bridge. It
was shortly after 4:00pm, and they would soon arrive. Flocks of starlings. Some
cowbirds mixed in. Coming from the distant west where they had been all day on
dryer land.
Should
I wake before it begins, I know to listen in bed for the sound. Wwwwwwwwwwwwww…. Like a wind tunnel. I then part back the blanket. Turn
to face the square windows and watch. And see how they soar overhead; disappear
into the tops of trees. Cling to the high branches of the oaks as well as the poplars
and maples. Their plump bodies facing the cottage, singing a song of dawn. All
in the trees and I have no clue as to why.
4:47pm,
like clockwork they leave the west: its wintry meadows, its cold still hills.
Here, above Old Mill, the birds converge. The sky becomes a black moment. Wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. This is the sound of
their wings in the wind. This is the sound, as they part into groups, swoop round
and join back together. When they leave, they go at once, leaving the sky bare.
My arms are raised in a gesture of thanks. As in bird wings,
my arms are out at my sides during their song of dusk.
Old Mill is a modest dwelling. It
was built to house a miller who ventured here over two centuries ago. An
original stone hearth is the main feature of the front room. Sawn beams run across
the ceiling as well as a few hewn rafters. An historian told me the beams
indicate an early period – which makes sense since the saw mill was built by
the first settlers. There is a Dutch door painted a rusty-red color, which has
an old box lock. I like to part open the door on warm days and even in cold
weather I like to part the top half. There are windows on either side that are
a replication of those made in the colonial era. Through them, I see a forest
of slim trees ascending a ravine beyond the mill house and creek. Nothing
covers these windows. No shades or blinds. A bare window is like an honest understanding.
You only see what is. Through them, I also have awareness of changing weather.
Not long ago, in fact, I witnessed frozen pellets of rain softening to snow.
The winds swirled the flurries before they coated the grasses. As snow clung to
branches, it offered a contrast of stark white on dark bark.
The
iron truss bridge is also known as a pony truss bridge. It was built in 1890,
and is documented on the historical registry of bridges. They don’t mention color
in the registry, but the metal is light-green. The roadbed is narrow, of one
lane, layered with dirt and gravel. It never feels like a manmade bridge, not the
way other bridges seem. I think because the green blends with nature; especially
in seasons where the leafy trees arch over the creek. It is a good place to
watch from – this pony truss bridge, this iron truss bridge. You can see both
up and downstream, how the body of the Wickecheoke meanders by. During a
strange October snowstorm, a branch tore from a tree. Although it remained
connected the broken end toppled upon the bridge and I had to maneuver it behind
the trusses. I did this while alone in the slanted snow. The electric was out
and I was heading over the bridge to call for help. But the branch would not
let me. I kept working it behind the trusses, and it kept snapping back. I struggled
against its insistent nature. It was the first time I sensed life as tenuous in
these woods. It was growing dark, all was frozen, the cottage cold.
A
bird’s inner-workings must be like gears in a clock. I say this because of their
absolute precision. Daily they appear at 6:45am. They return 4:47 each dusk. Why over Old Mill? I wrote in my
journal. I wrote: Why the numbers
growing? It was obvious that flocks from other areas were starting to join.
They were too many to count but it was clear the clan was increasing. Six
hundred at least, flying in. Filling the trees, like abundant fruit. This is the year of the bird, I wrote in
my journal, mid-January.
Beyond
this wooded haven live two women who are both named Carol. The Carols are
pretty good at splitting wood. They have a stump that they use. I have seen
them place some hefty pieces of wood on that block. A Carol will stand over it looking
pensive. Then, clutching an ax, she will swing up then down fast, splitting the
fat piece in two. I’ve been amazed at the look of cut wood: how fresh it
appears, the grain light-yellow. The smell of the forest slightly emanates from
it. I’ve been there on days they are fixed on their wood chopping tasks. Once,
I wanted to try, and they sure taught me. And once, while there at sundown, I
saw some starlings but they were not in formation. About fifty or so just breezing
by…. We were loading their truck with wood to take to Old Mill. After loading, I
rode with Carol #1 in the back of the open vehicle. Our butts were balanced on
the metal rim of the truck while the other Carol – known as C2 – drove with a black
terrier named Scottie-Girl on her lap. We were heading towards the iron truss
bridge when I felt the exuberant wind on my face. It occurred to me this is
what birds go through when the fresh breeze brushes their feathers. Carol #1 and
I began to hoot and holler in the back of the truck for no reason other than to
express the mutual joy we felt. Yahoooooo!
and woo woo! we kept saying. I
admit these silly words felt good. Wind in our faces, a high-flying feeling. Yahoooooo! Woo woo! It was no different than the
cheery words of the birds. We were excited
as free-soaring creatures, the starlings.
Today
the sky is wide open, running long as roads. When they come, they will come as
a sudden mass of starlings, riding upon it.
When
I began to plan evenings around them, I tried to tell myself this could be
foolish. I realized I was committing to Old Mill; locking into a little corner
of woods, to witness the arrival of birds singing their hearts out in trees.
Yet, in truth, I wanted nothing more
than to be called from the cottage by their cries. As it was, the past month, I
kept rushing into the winter grasses or stood on the old porch while they
congregated above. I could not speak of this to others, not even to The Carols.
It felt too special to form into ordinary words. There was fear as well, that the
mere act of mentioning would dispel the enchantment. I might not even be
believed, were I to share.
There
was this one time when the starlings came in mass, that I made my presence
known by way of my heart. I did this with my arms out at my sides. I felt
somewhat uncomfortable in the meadow, as their numbers were now very many. If
they chose, they could zoom down and collectively lift me up to a tree.
Impossible perhaps but also feasible. I sensed their collective power. They had
the ability to arrow down unexpectedly, their voices changing from birdsong to war
cry. It was a fleeting thought. Many times have I presented myself to the woods
and stood amongst trees in a state natural as they, and remained beneath them quietly
raising my eyes in respect. I decided to try this with the birds. What happened
wasn’t anything like you might think. No words. It was more a welling of
emotion sent forth, that would reach them in a way I knew not how. I only knew
they had sharpened insight. They had a relationship with the elemental world.
If their eyes could spot a seed, I reasoned, they would detect a working heart.
Feel its flying love.
When
I found a starling on the ground, turned on its side, I had walked to get my
mail. It was lying on pine needles, its body stiff yet beautiful – iridescent,
a deep-dark purple with polka-dots. I had my camera, and so aimed to photograph
its body that I might study it. But, even in death, I could not capture this
bird. I was not to have this bird for my own use, even if using meant just staring
into an image. I had that camera, as I said. I had raised it to zoom in, but
then could not. And in holding back, I connected with the secrets of the land.
It rendered the moment profound. I then knew; then said to myself, I must keep things
whole by keeping them free.
The
sky was orange. The air cold but I was there for the birds populating the branches.
Their noise rose into a frenzied chatter, became louder than anticipated, and
then there was silence. A hush spread over Old Mill. Then they took off, all at
once, as if on cue. I said six hundred earlier but there had to be more. Off the
branches they flew and gave quite a show. To say what this looked like would be
to describe a fireworks display – in that they exploded out of the trees and
dispersed to the air. Like sparks, they rained over the meadow. Then broke into
smaller groups; veered round or crisscrossed to perch in other branches. They
did it again. Exploding out of the trees, raining down the sky. I wanted to
believe the birds were doing this for me, as a way of sharing – like
showing-off – but am hesitant to reveal this as truth. I only know they involved
me. They collected above wherever I stood. When they left, they released from
the trees and flew off together. When they flew together, hundreds spread their
wings. A mile of birds soared over my life, over Old Mill, just before nightfall.
Then the color of night came on.
On
my lap is Sibley’s Field Guide to Birds.
I identify these flocks as European Starlings. Blackish overall with small white spots; oily greenish-black overall; drab
gray-brown with pale throat – are varied descriptions of the species. I have been seeking a language for the
noise they make. Hissing chatter it
says, with high sliding whistles. Includes imitation of other birds’ calls. A
harsh chatter. The flight call is a muffled dry wrrsh the guidebook states.
At
times the flocks are the last thing I think of before sleep.
I
had been hiking along the creek, and was now heading back to the cottage just
before dusk – when the angling of the sun shone the brightest orange upon the
trees. They illuminated as if on fire. At that same moment, the first flock came
soaring overhead. The starlings flew low, enough that I could see their
underbellies were aglow, brighter than ordinary light, coated with orange. Sunlight
had attached to them. It had found a way.
I
am sure the birds now know. I am so very sure. My story is that I must be here
at dusk when they fly in, and land in the branches so that the tops of trees
are seemingly in motion. I know they notice me, because they come circling
around. They screech and play. They grace the air with their gifted wings.
While I, who remain anchored to earth, have only a heart soaring. What I mean
is – what comes from the heart is the part that flies. I have also talked with
the birds by calling out to them: You are
beautiful! You are beautiful! And realized what they could hear was tone. So I tried singing the words in varying
high-pitched notes: You-are-beautiful. You-are-beautiful.
It has become a bird cry in human language.
And
now, darkness. No streetlights. Only a sky carrying the moon around. Sometimes it
wears a sun dog, a halo of sorts. All that moonshine, it turns the land pearly.
The starlings, the cowbirds, are elsewhere, asleep.
And
now, in the alcove, peering out windows, the meadow looks snow laden. The cold shadow
of a maple is outstretched across the moonlit grounds.
And
soon, morning – with sun on the wild oaks, from which the birds sing. The cowbirds,
the starlings, their sudden take-offs render me breathless. I will again yank
the iron latch to watch from the old window.
Thus,
winter at Old Mill continues in the manner I have explained. You can question
the goings-on, of old nature; but really, a place like this cannot be understood
by the reasoning mind. It is best experienced by the working heart. Love for
the living earth goes forth and draws things to it. So that these things come,
faithfully, each dusk and dawn. Bird,
she wrote. Feel its heart / beating fast
/ feel its shine / as it flies / through the trees….
*****
THE
STORY BEHIND THE ESSAY
The essay has been
inspired by the first year I house-sat for a cottage called Old Mill. Circa 1840s,
this modest dwelling was built for a miller who once ran a saw and gristmill
that is no longer up and running. Situated in a secluded setting, Old Mill is surrounded
by a meadow and trees. Beyond the trees the Wickecheoke creek flows. Nature is
a constant source of inspiration. Each season has its gifts. It was December
when the starlings first appeared. As noted in the essay, I was walking across
the iron truss bridge when they flew overhead. From that moment on, I noticed
them daily. They flew eastward at dawn and westward at dusk. Old Mill was their
stopping place. The flock grew in numbers to become a mass of 600, I would say.
My observations were recorded in a journal, and I began a relationship with
them in the sense that I joined them in the meadow at dusk. The details in the
essay are culled from my journal entries. The experience astounded me on many
levels. I certainly could not fly but my heart did soar. Coincidentally, the starlings
stopped appearing the first day of spring. I remember being astonished about
that too. That first day of spring, hundreds of peepers started croaking in the
marshy land across the way. As I said, each season has its gifts. Such is life
at Old Mill….
*****
ABOUT
THERÉSE HALSCHEID
Therése Halscheid’s latest poetry collection Frozen
Latitudes, received the Eric Hoffer Book Award, Honorable Mention for
Poetry. Essays and poems have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Tampa
Review, Sou’wester, South Loop, New Delta Review among many others. She has
been an itinerant writer for more than two decades, living simply on the road
as a house-sitter. A nomadic lifestyle has allowed her to connect with the
earth and understand more deeply the interconnectedness between nature and
human nature. Her photography chronicles her journey, and has appeared in
juried shows. She enjoys teaching in varied settings, both in USA and abroad.
To learn more, contact: ThereseHalscheid.com
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.