Space and Abundance

 “Small events, observed with generous curiosity, yield epiphanies.” *

Marilyn Chandler McEntyre

I am a summer gal. I love everything about it, including the heat and humidity. Not the hot 95 degrees hell heat. Just the normal hammock-napping, fresh tomato sandwich, cicada night-sounds summer heat. Late summer, there is peace unlike any other time of year sitting in the evenings at the pasture's edge, watching the slanted light of sunset gild dragonfly wings. September brought cool fall nights and warm summer days, turning the pasture golden where the early morning dew bends the grasses, dragonflies sit atop tall seed heads, and silver spider webs sway in the cool morning air. My husband had always mowed the acre and a half pasture every few weeks. In his absence, caring for his dad during Covidtide, the grasses grew tall, and we let it go. It gave him less to do when he would return home for short stays, and I had always wondered if birds and other animals would make good use of it if left fallow. In short, they did. 

The deer had plenty to graze and, for the most part, stayed away from my yard. The fawns and does lay near the edges of the pasture, napping during a steady misty rain without fear from coyotes or my curious presence. Flocks of goldfinches, during their spring and fall migrations, made quick work of dried seed heads and were drawn to my feeders. This year, two wild turkey hens set up residence with their eleven chicks. Their numbers are fewer now, probably due to raptors, Cooper’s Hawk, Mississippi Kite, and Red-Shouldered Hawk, who recognized the pasture's abundance as well. Watching all of this, I rarely felt alone or deprived during those solitary months.

When winter came, the pasture provided in a way I could not imagine. Winter’s cold added to the rest of the overwintering birds dark-eyed juncos, a species that only visits during that season. It’s a small sparrow-sized bird, with dark-slate uppers and a gray-white chest preferring to eat seed that falls on the ground below bird feeders. They are often harbingers of imminent snowfall that provides a backdrop that highlights their delicate beauty.

One particularly bitterly cold morning in February, when temperatures were below zero and snow covered everything, I bundled up to walk the puppy down the long gravel drive that borders the pasture. The prolonged bitter temperatures only added to the isolation I felt on this silent, gray morning. Birds, my faithful visitors, had disappeared from their feeders. As we quietly walked, I heard faint rustlings and saw the grasses stir and then watched as flocks of sparrows and dark-eyed juncos rose quickly above the pasture where they had gathered underneath in caves of snow-laden grasses. So, that’s where they were. Our "neglect" of the pasture gave shelter to them and granted me an unexpected and welcome sight. 

I planned none of it. How could I? I didn’t know then birds could burrow and shelter in grasses. Even if I had known, I’m far from being able to predict during the summer, when we let the pasture grow, birds and others would need it in a mid-winter polar vortex, much less herd the birds to safety. It happened on its own, due to a little intentional neglect and plenty of curiosity on my part. I only gave space.