Night and Day

 Night and Day
late July 2013

“Tracks in the untidy edges offer hope, the promise that the page might yield something beyond its justified margins.”

from Stirring the Mud: On Swamps, Bogs, and Human Imagination

by Barbara Hurd

Day

This little shrinking bowl of water in my woods is a microcosm of fascination and mystery.  During the day, I look for what is there at the moment, squirming in daylight.  I also look for evidence of what was out and about under cover of darkness.  What is before me, and what hides from me?  What lurks on the edge of sight, of sound perception, in the crevices between night and day?

The day is full of color and visible motion.

Unripe fruit of the Jack-in-the-Pulpit.  It will be crimson in autumn.

 Monkey Flower in bloom.

The tubed flower of the Jewelweed.

A young Elderberry shrub in bloom, on the top side of the root ball

A spider in her fresh morning web

New life begins vividly.

There are patches of green on the bare side of the root ball.  Moss?  Lichen?

A young Clearweed starting life on a nearby rotten log.

The pond is shrinking.  Sunlight sinks into the eastern end in the morning and covers almost the whole pond in the afternoon, heating it up, causing more water to evaporate.

Raccoon prints can be seen under the water near the edge, as there is so much more edge now for them to enter and explore.

 

The “siltation spot”, where sediment has obviously been pushed in during heavy rains, has changed considerably in just five days.

The murky deep, after hot days and nights, holds activity within it behind a veil of suspended particles.

Five days later, the pond has decreased even more, but after another spell of cool days and nights (so unusual, but so welcome in late July), the water is almost clear.  Life is resting in the bottom, or in the shallows, barely active.

A frog is sitting still at the edge, but wary, ready to spring, its eyes intently pressed toward me.

In and instant, it was away, under the deep, dark cover of the root ball and its scraggly, dangling rootlets.  My husband had come to Cottonwood Pond the day before and saw about fifteen frogs.  He had been there in the afternoon, when the pond was warm and covered in sunlight, when amphibians could soak up warmth before the cooler night ahead.

I hear a slight wet plop, and turn to see only this cloud of sediment in the water, above a depression in the mud.  Another something on the edge of sight, the edge of hearing.  

 This is an example of something I have learned about recently:  bioturbation.  When animals move about, they not only prevent a film, or microlayer, from forming around them (which would affect their metabolism), they also cause some turbulence and disturbance in the water and in the sediment around them.  How they live, feed and move relates to what kind of affect they have on their surroundings.  Obviously, a frog or other animal jumping into the bottom and burying itself in the mud will not only rearrange the sediment on the bottom (and possibly create a depression that allows things to collect), but also temporarily create less clarity in the water at that spot.

Here is a sample of the silty clay mud at the bottom of the pond.  We deal with the same kind of soil uphill in our gardens.  Years ago, my daughter and I scooped up wet soil from the creek side, put it through a cleaning process, and formed it into clay bowls.  The grains are very fine, and it is so easy for an animal to duck into it and hide in an instant.  

One can also easily lose one's shoe in it.

On the other side of the root ball, I peek at the “little pond”.  This, too, has changed much, despite being almost completely in shade.  During the last visit, I observed a shallow section, dropping off to a relatively deep section.  Now the “shallow” area is devoid of standing water, leaving very mucky mud decorated with fresh raccoon tracks.

It looks as if even the raccoons had trouble pulling their feet out of the mud.

There are newer canine prints on the muddy path around the side of the root ball.  It has been easy to see the marks of toenails at the tips of the toe pads.  I am trying to determine whether these are coyote or fox.

Perhaps this measurement will help, and the fact that the foot pad seems to have a “u” shape at the base of the foot.

Here are drawings of coyote prints, as shown in Track Finder: a guide to mammal tracks of eastern North America, by Dorcas Miller ...

...and Red Fox prints from the same book.

No matter what it is, it is slipping by here in the dark of night, silently, while I sleep. 

On the edge of vision, the edge of sound.

“The paradox is that to see clearly, you must learn to see obliquely.  You must look ahead and, at the same time, widen your peripheral vision so that it extends not just in great arcs around your head, but over the edge, into the margins where the visible and invisible, dreams and reality, land and water, emptiness and profusion mingle.”

from Stirring the Mud: On Swamps, Bogs, and Human Imagination

by Barbara Hurd

Night

July 24, 2013

For the first time, I went down to Cottonwood Pond in late evening, to see what it would be like during the dark time.  I took my little notebook, my camera, and a little flashlight. 

It was only two days after the full moon.  The glow of the setting sun, well below the horizon, was fast fading, but moon glow almost balanced it, for awhile.  I stopped to talk with our two dogs, to say I would be right back.  Seeing me slip away into the darkening woods was unsettling to them, and I heard them whimper a little after I disappeared.

I did not need the flashlight to pick my way down the slope through the trees.  I knew this route well, and the moon helped me.  I wanted to sit uphill from Cottonwood Pond, near enough to see and hear what was there, but far enough away to be still and, hopefully, invisible to wildlife that may visit the pond at dark.

I found a convenient fallen tree at just the right vantage point and position, and settled myself onto it.  Down the length of the trunk were swaths of white fungi.  They shone in the dusk, almost luminescent.  It was nice to have this “light” accompany me.

Fireflies started to blink on and off, here and there, through the trees, their yellow-white light sometimes in streaks.  The dance and rhythm of fireflies, lightening bugs, “little Star People” seemed in sync with the sound of cicadas, calling from the trees all around, a sound left over from the heat of day.  Katydids were beginning their raspy chant a distance away.  A Pewee gave a last exclamation for the day - “PeWEE!”, and then to rest.

Dusk was approaching dark when the sound of cicadas faded, overlapped by the approach of katydids.  A little while later, I became aware that the cicadas were silent.

As dusk faded, the mushrooms on the log glowed more intensely.  So did the large shelf mushrooms on a bent tree next to Cottonwood Pond.  They were as visible as a last dying, white ember.

Katydids became louder, and surrounded me closely.  It was almost dark, with moonlight just on the edges of my view, sometimes peeking into the woods.  The glow of mushrooms melted into the dark, their comfort gone. 

There was a thumpy sound somewhere on the hill above the pond – a quick, light thud.  Later, an almost imperceptible movement, leaving a feeling of doubt, a question about vision. 

Katydids became louder and closer.  Perhaps there were more than one species – some sounded lower and raspier.  In the background, a constant rattling of jingle bells.  Crickets?

The dark became enveloping, with occasional twinklings of fireflies.  Cottonwood Pond became practically invisible.

I had forgotten this feeling.  It had been a long time since I had been somewhere alone, surrounded by darkness and wild.

Another thump-rattle.

I do not scare easily, and my curiosity was holding me in place. 

At the same time, I thought about coyotes. We have many here, and we sometimes hear a group of them howling and yipping just on the other side of this woods, not far from where I was sitting.  I heard no coyotes yipping this night, yet, but they can be very silent when they wish to be.

I thought of the contrast of the morning, the small, squiggling life in and near the pond, the sunlight bearing down, and how I could move about, concentrating on the pond, with barely a thought to any danger.  I wished for a tent in the darkness, some sort of tangible cover.

My leg was falling asleep.  I gathered my things, turned on my little flashlight, and carefully worked my way back up the slope.  Almost to the edge, my light flashed on a still, glowing spot, surrounded by shimmer.  I spotted my light on it.  A pale spider sat in the middle of a perfect orb web, strands shining like bits of magic against the dark.  She must have just finished weaving this masterpiece.  There was no damage yet, and no insects caught in it.  She had finished it and then went to sit in the middle of this beautifully deadly work, awaiting the little bugs that were sure to fly into it.  What excellent timing she had, and I thanked her, in my thoughts, for the mosquitoes she would probably collect.

I left her there, glowing, shimmering, calmly waiting in the dark and the moon glow, ready to move in a flash at any moment.