Looking for Signs of Life

Looking for Signs of Life

March 2, 2013

A dusting of snow greeted us on this morning.  Instead of leaving white stripes on the sides of the standing trees, the snow seemed to have fallen straight down.  This was a good day to go down to Cottonwood Pond and look for signs of life, as there was enough snow to reveal animal tracks.

Down to the pond.  The white stripes of snow-covered fallen trees contrasted with dark standing trees.

The dust of snow accentuated patterns in bark and wood.

The detritus of last year’s fallen leaves in the cold creek water was in waiting.  Tiny crustaceans and microscopic beings will be breaking it down before too long.  I did not want to disturb anything here.

On the top side of the root ball, Turkey Tail fungus was softening, reviving, its elegant patterns revealed again after the dormant period.

Green things were beginning to sprout and grow in sheltered places.

As the mud softened, crawdads have started moving and holes have appeared.  With its lobster-like claws, a crawdad has pushed up more mud from its chamber, leaving a bubbly mass around the

perimeter.

Is this the depression left by a deer hoof in the mud?  I found no animal prints in the snow surrounding the pond and tree, or anywhere else – no deer, raccoon, birds, possums, squirrels, rabbits, mice or skunks.  But, the snow had fallen after sunrise, and the animals tend to be active at night or at dawn.

I stood by the pond and heard a small kerplunk, like something hopping into the water.  Small clods of dried mud, which had been clinging tenuously to rootlets, were losing their hold and dropping into the water.  Their various sizes meeting with the water sounded like different music notes, in a serendipitous composition.

I wondered how often pieces of mud would dry, shrink and fall into the water from this massive root ball, and how long before their collected dropping would make the pond so shallow it would dry up.

I approached the water, its surface reflecting the trees and clouds above.  I knew there was life in these reflected trees.  Squirrels would sometimes leap limb-to-limb.  A raccoon could be nestled in the hole of a dead tree.  Nuthatches would be walking jerkily up the side of a tree, poking edible treasures under pieces of bark.  Woodpeckers would be prying holes in search of insects.  A hawk would occasionally fly over the treetops, and sometimes this water would reflect a flight of geese across the clouds.

I wondered if any frogs or turtles were nestled in the mud and under layers of dead leaves.

And then my eye caught something peculiar at the edge of the pond – a very thick, reddish, furry tail.

I saw the rest of the Fox Squirrel in the cold water. 

How did this happen?  Did it lose its balance while leaping around in the trees above?  Was it confused by the reflection on the top of the water?  Did it try to jump across from root ball to soggy ground, never expecting such deep water in these woods?  Was it chased into the water by a predator?

However it got there, it had obviously tried to swim to the outer edge, not making it out before succumbing to the freezing water.

One less Fox Squirrel chattering in the trees, planting acorns, flicking its furry tail at possible danger.

I went to Cottonwood Pond that morning looking for signs of stirring Life.  I did find some, but I also found Death. 

But, every time I go into the woods, I find both Life and Death, Death becoming Life, Life dying, then becoming Life again. There is no duality.  It is all the same thing, and the cycle continues.

This is one of the reasons I go into the woods, where things make sense, where they are just what they are.