By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
Oddly enough, this all started with a hawk, or more accurately more hawks than usual. It is not uncommon in traveling in this area to see a sizeable sandy hulk of talon and feathers surveying its domain from powerline or barren tree branch. In fact, there is a rather magnificent specimen of such that has decided my own property is appropriate for predatory contemplation. He has a favorite bit of power cable that gives him a multi acre vantage point and I occasionally see him gracefully descend, wings outstretched and unmoving. He glides without effort sometimes only a grass blade height above the ground. His hunt, though lethal, is a thing of beauty.
It occurred to me that just as elegant and lithe are the plentiful deer around my home. You can find them often grazing in the most inopportune locations seemingly oblivious to their undeniable status as prey. It seems however that their well-known foe of human wielded lead is not in fact the worst of their fears. I cannot begin to tell you the times my brow has furrowed whilst driving down the road after seeing empty dark eyes staring into nothing from the side of the road. The end of many a buck and doe is the violent mixture of vehicle and pavement. I daresay the roads claim as many lives as barrel and bullet.
Though the hawk is very often in pursuit of its victim and the deer is very often is a casualty, the end of the life cycle is not the only thing that I am privy to witness. Not far from my home I get to watch as goats grow rounder and fatter with the passing days until suddenly you see small wobbling chocolate-colored tag-alongs of nothing but floppy ears and spindly legs. And so, the next generation begins. Going in almost every direction from my home you can see little black calves like miniature clones of their mothers bouncing and kicking in the fields. While I am sure that the herd often does thin, it grows just the same.
It doesn’t even have to be wildlife. You see the circle carry on in the surroundings themselves. With enough views of fields and trees you get to watch as the year carries on its order of operations with a front row seat. Without the crowding of concrete and steel there is a clearly set stage to watch great old trees go from bare grey bones to peppered with green specks of infantile leaves progressing to blossom, lush greenery and then a kaleidoscope before returning to the skeleton from whence it began. I am not hindered from the magic of the revolving times by traffic lights or neon signs. Out here I get to see it all unfold before my very eyes.
Even the never-ending stories of people are not hidden. Old houses full of memories of countless families and lives often sit untouched being reclaimed by nature. Clapboard siding is embraced by the trees from whence it came, and old brick chimneys collapse and return to their clay origins. All the while nearby the clamor of busy construction echoes as new homes rise from the ground as if they were planted and grown. Perhaps it is because in the country the chaos and bustle of modernity doesn’t seem to overpower our willingness to give and endearing nod to the past.
There is something wholesome about watching a tractor from decades gone by carry a great roll of hay out to pasture amid cows and their calves; to see the old lumbering along to provide for the new. Here it is all on proud display. The births and beginnings are simply paths to travel to get to endings. The truly magical thing is those endings just lead to more beginnings. Each has its value to move us along in the circle that was created to include every one of us to play our integral part. Luckily, I live in a place where that grand scheme of things encompasses me on all sides. I suppose I didn’t really give the concept enough thought until I let myself really see a hawk.
Prose and Possibilities 