Bereft of Birdsong

newyearbaker

Silence and darkness grow apace, broken only by the crack of a hunter’s gun in the woods.  Songbirds abandon us so gradually that, until the day when we hear no birdsong at all but the scolding of the jay, we haven’t fully realized that we are bereft — as after a death.  Even the sun has gone off somewhere… Now we all come in, having put the garden to bed, and we wait for winter to pull a chilly sheet over its head.  
~Jane Kenyon from “Good-by and Keep Cold”

Every day now we hear hunters firing in the woods and the wetlands around our farm, most likely aiming for the few ducks that have stayed in the marshes through the winter, or possibly a Canadian goose or a deer to bring home for the freezer.   The usual day-long symphony of birdsong is replaced by shotguns popping, hawks and eagle screams and chittering, the occasional dog barking, with the bluejays and squirrels arguing over the last of the filbert nuts.

In the clear cold evenings, when coyotes aren’t howling in the moonlight, the owls hoot to each other across the fields from one patch of woods to another, their gentle resonant conversation echoing back and forth.    The horses confined to their stalls in the barns snort and blow as they bury their noses in flakes of summer-bound hay.

But there is no birdsong arias,  leaving me bereft of their blending musical tapestry that wake me at 4 AM in the spring.   No peeper orchestra from the swamps in the evenings, rising and falling on the breeze.
It is too too quiet.

The chilly silence of the darkened days is now interrupted by all percussion, no melody at all.   I listen intently for early morning and evening serenades returning.
It won’t be long.
jansunset

Listening to Owls

Last night was clear with full moonshine and the owls were busy hunting on our farm, calling back and forth to each other, comparing notes on where to find prey.

Thankfully they were not calling my name. At least I don’t think so, nevertheless their hoots haunted me.

A coastal tribal legend has it that if you hear an owl call your name, your death is imminent. I’ve had no recent brushes with death, thank goodness, but as a doctor turned patient over the last two weeks, I’ve had cause to consider the preciousness of life and preservation of health.

The first was dutifully going in for my annual screening mammogram which became a two hour marathon of the radiologist asking for various wedge and coned down views, finally resorting to an ultrasound to determine that a small simple cyst had developed under a nipple and did not, from its appearance, need further investigation. Whew. My worry meter, working overtime through all the imaging, slid back to zero.

Then a subtle vision change in one eye resulted in an appointment with my optometrist who confirmed new vitreous floaters and opacities, but also noted an abnormal retinal artery in that eye. The next stop was the retinal specialist who documented a small retinal “wrinkle” and tear, but was more concerned about the artery which appeared to show some previous injury, whether from a clot or atherosclerosis was not clear. Initial screening lab work for diabetes, lipids, sed rate and metabolic functioning looked okay so more specific testing was ordered (D-dimer, C reactive protein) with elevated levels suggesting I am at risk for clotting, cardiovascular disease, and stroke, not to mention possible hidden malignancies causing a hypercoagulable state. As a 57 year old with hypertension whose family history contains plenty of cancers, wayward clots, unfortunate strokes and one sudden death heart attack, this certainly got my attention. The worry meter has gone into overdrive. Now I’m going through testing of my legs (no clots but lousy incompetent deep veins), carotids (no plaque) and next week my heart (to look for valve issues and emboli). Whether more testing is warranted beyond that has yet to be determined, so I’m sitting in the uncomfortable position of feeling just fine, thank you very much, but that is my denial kicking in.

There are no good reasons for retinal artery problems. They are all bad reasons. As someone on blood pressure medications for a decade and having gained weight I don’t need over the years (just in case of an unexpected serious food shortage, right?), I consider myself sufficiently warned. Besides aspirin, fish oil capsules and lipid lowering agents, I must change how I take care of myself or things will change for me without asking permission first. The doctor turned patient has been given a chance to make a difference in at least one patient’s future, or I’ll be no use to any patient.

The owls may not be calling my name but their hoots haunt for good reason. I’m listening.

Under the Owl Moon

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Shadows
stretch long
under full moonlight
paths streaked
in semigloss
glow

Barnyard
lies silent
evening calm spreads
loft to stall
in advancing
twilight

Silhouette
branches move
against crisp sky
as wings
swish softly
searching

Clicking
cadenced duet
calling the question:
nocturnal overture
Who? again
Who?

Answers
from treetops
barn roof rafters
echoing soliloquy
of the lost
Found