Non-attached Love

It is precious rare to gaze at the wild and have it gaze right back at you. 

In July we found three kestrel chicks trapped in a bucket on an abandoned farm. 

They could not tell us how they got there or why there were no adults around to care for them.

We brought them home in a box and tried to provide for them.

  

We fed them with road kill grouse and rabbit, until they regained their strength and their feathers gleamed.

Within days they were flying short distances, landing awkwardly on whatever was in their path. With a little practice, they gained finesse and would fly from treetop to rooftop, one after the next.

Still they returned to eat scraps of meat we left out for them.

Selwyn took this photo, it is clear that the infatuation was unidirectional. 

Eventually, the three flew off and didn't return. 

We still think of them fondly and hope against all odds that they survived.

(Joe Bishop too the rest of the photos) 

Cornish Giants

Our family has come to like chicken.

 

Over the past few years, our friends and neighbours have raised enough to go around.  

 

This spring we were alarmed to realize that everyone we knew had backed out of raising extra chickens.

 

On the spot we decided we had little choice but to do it ourselves.

 

 

 

 

 

Two dozen came to us in a box not much bigger than a shoebox.  

A day is as much as a year in the life of a meat bird.

Within eight weeks, not a single bird could fit into that box. 

 

 

As a bird bred to be juicy tender breast meat,

I was pleased that they seemed prettier and more active than I had expected.

We new it was time to do them in when they had to strain to lift their cheast from the ground.

After walking a few steps they would let their legs collapse with an audible thunk.

 

 

We took them apart in the front yard.

 

The next day I changed gears.

I went to the Ogilvie Mountains where Willow Ptarmigan,

the local counterparts of our Cornish Giants

live at large.

 

 

Joe Bishop took this photo.

 

 

Waiting for Godot

Our faith has been tested.

And then Spring finally, feebly crept in

with her enormous flocks of Sparrows.

 

The river broke up

the few crocuses whose buds were not frozen by the late frosts finally blossomed

and at long last the birch sap ran.

We were more ready for it than we have ever been.

But the White Witch returns

and returns and returns again.

She buries the flowers.

And she shuts it all down.

 

The sapsicles hang heavy from the tapped trees.

We pass the time, waiting for Godot.

And the sparrows, in a cold and hungry stooper, fly low and erratic.

Their songs are desperate cries:

“I am still here; I am a survivor against all odds."

 

They mix with the songs of my daughter Selwyn,

who is pleading with Spring to come for her birthday next week.

 

 

Handsome Furs

This little fellow found the caribou hides we had stretched out in front.

He has been gnawing bits off

hiss-growling and tik-tiking at us

 before scampering off when we get too near.

I hadn't before realized how varied Pine Marten vocalizations can be.

 

His coat is extra glossy, perhaps because of the bones he's found in our yard.

Such a handsome fur would've brought in a few hundred dollars this year I imagine,

 but it couldn't be worth more to anyone other than him.

 

Here is someone else who can't help herself and is inspired to dress beautifully every day.

 

And here's her footwear of which I too am proud.

The toll of a cold snap

Its been a cold winter.

It hit -50 degrees Celsius first in November and that burst our min-max thermometer.

The cold kept coming.

While we were away a young wolf curled up and died in our wash tent.

We had a bale of straw in there.

 Her stomach was stuck to her ribs. I'd guess she starved, the toll of a cold snap.

She's probably not the only one. I am glad at least she had a comfortable nest.