Hawk with squirrel

I can't imagine what it was like to live without dogs and without a park just steps from my door.

If I did not live by a park, I never would have learned to recognize the beautiful shagbark hickory, or the gorgeous flowers of the tulip poplar.

In the winter, Carl and I love to sit in the living room and look out over the dense black spread of tree canopy across the street, sometimes covered with snow, sometimes so black against a deep, deep sapphire gray evening sky, sometimes lit by lightning.

I love that the dogs and I can wander in and kick dry leaves, listen to the sounds of jays, nuthatches, thrushes, owls, woodpeckers and yes, crows, because the even the raucous caws of crows tell a story.

I love that water from somewhere deep underground makes a permanent, tiny little stream at one end of the park, just a drizzle really, from the top of one treed slope down to the bottom. It's barely there, now, because it is so covered in leaves, but the flow still ripples, creating a tiny pool that the dogs like to lap from.

I love the contrast between the traffic that zips along the street, always rushing, oblivious and too fast to a destination, and the life in the park, equally oblivious but somehow more ... purposeful?

On Thursday, the dogs and I walked down into the park and immediately off to my left a motion caught my attention. I turned and into my full field of vision a hawk lifted up, a small creature in its talons. Off it flapped, but not too far and I thought if we walked quietly enough we might get close enough to see what it had caught.

Then I heard what sounded like, very far away, a baby crying. It wasn't though, of course not.

Also to my left, in a bare tree, was a squirrel, looking down at us and quietly making that chattering sound that angry squirrels make. Except it was not a rat-a-tat chatter, it was more like the single notes, repeated slowly, over and over.

The squirrel saw us, flipped head up quickly and dived into a hole in the tree. The head poked out and watched us, now silent.

I had to wonder if the small creature had seen its companion taken by the hawk, which we saw, again, lift up from the leaf litter with a lifeless shape in its grip, and flap away to another end of the park.

Another hawk glided behind it.

I though about how days start and end, with the expectation that life will continue on as normal, uneventful. Thankfully, most days, it does.

We continued on our way, kicking the dry leaves and smelling the cinnamon scent of fall.

Mind images

I take great pleasure -- and sometimes grief -- in revisiting events that I have seen over my life. They may be insignificant or of great meaning, but they have been captured equally by the camera and the audio recorder in my brain.

As in: Sunday the dogs and I were in the park for our long morning walk. There is a play area; it has a slide, monkey bars and one of those short plank bridges for kids to balance on. There was a young dad there with two kids. A baby and a toddler, a little girl.

 The dogs had paused to read a page in that day's doggie newspaper, so we were stopped on the slope just above the play area. I gazed around and my glance fell on them. I saw Dad scoop up the baby and trot off, with the toddler in bouncing pursuit. It's so funny to watch the movements of kids who have only just learned to walk. They seem to progress forward in a bouncy side to side motion that has very little control of itself. At any moment, they could go tumbling forward. Little one chased Dad and baby, bouncing along with Dad slowing down, then finally stopping. I couldn't hear, but the happiness of an unencumbered moment in a sunny park on a Sunday morning was unmistakable.

Dad and kids moved on, and so did we.

I've also noticed how often I've heard the red-bellied woodpecker this spring; usually he is much more noisy in the fall. I've also missed hearing a wood thrush that I have heard consistently each spring for at least the past four or five years. Perhaps I am missing that because we have been walking in to the park a different way. The thrush, which has the song of an angel, always has been in the same place.

The red-bellied, though, he is another story. In the fall, the air seems clearer, lonelier. Many birds are gone, but this big woodpecker sings on, in a high-pitched, sharp warble that echoes in the quiet park. I keep hearing him now, though, confusing me into thinking it is fall.

It isn't. As lovely as the season is, now, especially, with petal snow covering deep green spring grass, it is changing and moving on. The red-bellied woodpecker's stage season will be here soon enough.