Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

Serendipity has been circumventing my attempts to celebrate the winter solstice in any true style for several years in a row. This year I get to spend the 21st on a plane. I hope I have a window seat.

The other day I was walking on River Road in Sunderland at around one in the afternoon, getting towards the end of our first big snow storm. The precipitation had turned to a fine sleet, and underfoot were four inches of snow topped by an inch and a half of hard slush. I followed other people’s footprints when I could, but mostly they’d been left hours ago and had healed over with ice.

I was walking by a gap between farmhouses when I heard something from the big, empty field behind them. Music. A couple of chords played on a big ole synth pipe organ, strung together into part of a melody. The sequence repeated itself once, then ceased. I wasn’t sure if I’d really heard it, so I stood there in the iced-over driveway for a minute, looking around at the clapboards and the maple trees for a light in a window, an open garage door. Something that might hint at the source of the sound. Nobody was out.

After a minute I heard whoever it was play through the same half-melody once more. I recognized it, but couldn’t place it. Maybe it was part of a Christmas song. I wanted to figure out how I knew it, and who was playing it.

Fairies? Angels? The Dead?

I turned away from the road, between the farmhouses and into the field, into the wind, the wet ice coming down on my face, turning it numb. Straight ahead over the pines and hemlocks at the far side of the field were the profile of Mt. Toby and the Bull Hill bluffs. Left, a church spire—no, it was the tower of the Blue Heron. The building had been town hall once, but never a church. No synth organ music issued from any of the above. I didn’t hear it again.

The wool coat I had on was getting close to soaked-through. I gave up, turned south over the crunching, sopping-wet fields towards home.

Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

I figured out how to take halfway decent pictures of birds in the cherry and shag birch trees outside my kitchen even with screens in the way. I realize they are just your run of the mill songbirds, but around this time of February, with the snow piled as high as it is and not much sign of letting up, even silent winter songbirds start looking pretty interesting. I like the way they get all fluffy when it’s cold.

A Northern Mockingbird, mimus polyglottos

And a Northern Carndinal female.

I also see a lot of jays, bluebirds, dark-eyed juncoes, goldfinches, nuthatches, tufted titmice. Maybe if I really start to go stir crazy I’ll try to take pictures of all of them.

Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

Yeah. I’m a Whistler fan.

Birch and oak near dark.

Shadows of my backyard apple tree by the almost-full moon.

The tree casting the shadow.

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Yes, thank you, I am perfectly aware that it’s a kangaroo.

Happy solstice.

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I took this Monday at about 6:30 PM in the Southwest. Clockwise, the moon, Jupiter, and Venus.

Obviously the Great Shift is near to hand.

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Occasionally, as a matter of probabilities, one must expect to find himself in a snow-fogged graveyard.

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About 3 minutes after totality, 10:54 PM.

Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

Barred owl, strix varia

The story of the Spirit Owl is simple but eerie. One cold afternoon in the late winter of 2005, I glance out the office window of the Berkshire Hills farm where I work, and sitting in the branches of a crabapple tree not twenty feet from the front door is this beautiful, deadly-eyed owl. I point it out to my employer, the wisewoman and herbalist, who tells me straight-facedly that this owl’s presence comes as no surprise—it is a messenger, a bearer of news from the spirit world, and she has seen it here before, years ago, sitting in that very same tree. I don’t believe her. But I get my camera and go downstairs to take a picture. This owl has nerves of steel. I step out the front door and inch closer, pressing the shutter intermittently, a little too chilly and too freaked out by the whole situation to get a steady shot. Only when I am practically on top of it does the owl perform a stately turn and swoop silently off into the pines.

All this happens in broad daylight, mind you.

I go home that night and get out my bird books, determined to find a rational explanation for the owl’s uncanny behavior. National Audubon Society’s Field Guide to Birds: Eastern Region has the following to say about strix varia:

This owl is most often seen by those who seek it out in its dark retreat, usually a thick grove of trees in lowland forest. There it rests quietly during the day, coming out at night to feed on rodents, birds, frogs, and crayfish.

In other words, barred owls are nocturnal—they don’t come out in daylight.

The next day, in defiance of its very nature, the owl is back again, sitting on the same branch staring at the door, at me peeking through it, exactly as though it expects me to shed my human disguise and fly off with it into the shadows. And it’s there again the day after that.

What does it mean? What does it want from me? Why won’t it look away?

But on the fourth day, the owl doesn’t return. With the immediate affront to my rational sensibilities removed, my feeling of ontological horror fades. After a few weeks, I give myself permission to dismiss it and go on about my life. And that was the end of it. Or so I thought.

Now it’s almost exactly three years later—the early spring of 2008. I show up at work this morning, glance out the office window, and there’s the owl again. In the same damn tree, practically on the same branch. Only this time, it doesn’t quite seem to want to meet my eye. As though it were ashamed of me.

Is it the same owl? It can’t be. How long do owls live? Kept in captivity, according to this site, barred owls have been known to survive up to twenty-three years.

It sure looks like the same owl.

I took a picture (much nicer this time, if I do say so myself), and compared it with the blurry photo of three years ago, and compared that with a murky, distant picture I found in the archives, which my boss snapped when the owl first visited in the early spring of 2002. It’s hard to say with the older photo, but the two shots I took are practically identical. I compare them with the identification photo in the Audubon guide, and there, the distinction is clear: our owl has the same penetrating, coal-black eyes, the same mottled pattern on the breast, but it’s sleeker, with less rust color in the feathers, more white. A quick google image search confirms this: barred owls look alike, but there is quite a bit of variation between individuals. All of which leads me to only one conclusion.

It’s the same owl.

What the hell is going on? Is this truly, as the wise-woman suggests, an owl of ill omen? Is it some restless ghost that returns to the site on the anniversary of its grisly murder? Is it the spirit of an ancestor in animal disguise, come to watch over my shoulder and make sure I dot all my i’s and close all my HTML tags?

Actually, I’ve been thinking about this since I got home, and I believe I have the answer. Most of it, anyway. Enough to preserve my rationalist worldview for now. It’s the three year cycle in the owl’s eerie pattern that really throws me. But even that too can be explained away, with a stretch. If you’re of the ilk who’d prefer to think magic is real, well, just don’t read past the cut.

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Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

Sialia sialis Frozen highland marsh, Barkhamsted, CT.

Don’t usually see them this far north in the wintertime.

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I’ve been meaning to post something about Miguel Angel Asturias, a Guatemalan writer who won the Nobel in 1967, but the topic is still a little too engrossing for me to distill down to a point just yet.

In the meantime, a story of winter wanderings!

Sometime in mid-December it snowed a heck of a lot. I strapped on my snowshoes, took hold of my long wooden pole, and set forth.

Snowshoeing in fresh, deep snow is ridiculously fun. It should probably be illegal it is so fun. Of course, not everybody has snowshoes. I happen to own a beat-up old pair I bought for $65 back in 2000 or so, well-used but functional. These are not the classic kind made of wood and rawhide, but the more modern variety, plastic, with metal claws that attach to your boots and pivot freely from the rest of the shoe. Also toothed metal runners along the bottom for traction on steep hillsides. They are, frankly, awesome.

Running downhill in snowshoes over two feet of fluff instills in me a bizarre, dreamlike sense of invincibility. The tracks on the shoes have just enough grip to keep you from losing control completely, and their weight and surface area lowers your center of gravity, making it virtually impossible to topple forward headfirst into a tree. It feels like running on the moon. Or walking a tightrope with one of those bigass poles. I take giant loping strides and rocket along effortlessly. Abominable snow-me. The snow sticks to the trees and hushes everything, and there’s nobody around, so I sing like an idiot. Grateful Dead songs mostly. Dire Wolf.

This is Chang Farm in Whately, MA, with the Connecticut River and Sunderland on the far side. My trek began at that group of buildings in the middle distance center left. I visited the cemetery, then crossed through fields and climbed up the embankment to the bridge, out of sight at far left. I went over the bridge, past more fields to the south foot of Mt. Sugarloaf, and up to the top where I took this picture. I stopped and sucked on an icicle for a bit until I got my wind back. Then I veered off-trail and plunged down the north side of the mountain, hooting maniacally all the way and lashing my poor doggie Max, to deprive the good little children of South Deerfield of assorted Who Puddings, cans of Who Hash, and Electro-Cardio-Snooks. Then I turned around and wandered across more fields back to the bridge and home. And boy was I exhausted when I got there!

Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

It’s too late already–but I’ve been trying to imprint winter on my consciousness, building memories for when it doesn’t happen anymore. Wind digging into my cheeks, snapping the tail of my scarf like a whip. The delicate balance between the layers of wool I’m wearing, the chill outside, and the body heat expended walking through snow. I’ve had cross country skis on my Christmas wish list for three years now. Next year, I’ll take them off–they won’t be worth having anymore.

3,500 flying foxes died in Australia when temperatures spiked to 107 degrees in 2002, according to a recent study cited by this alarmist AP article. Sigh. Do we really need to be alarmist about this–given how bad things actually are?

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Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

Mash left behind in the carboy after the initial fermentation of the Waning Moon Tavern’s Connubial Bliss Barleywine.

Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

Originally published at The Mossy Skull. Please leave any comments there.

A barred owl that came and sat outside the window of Singing Brook Farm for a week straight. Can anyone proffer a rational explanation for this?

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