Whispers

December 8, 2010.  Wednesday.

Situation:  Last night I reread Moi’s story, “The Old Man Who Took His Gun for a Walk.”  I hadn’t told her yesterday that when I read the story it brought tears to my eyes.  I hadn’t told her this because I wasn’t sure I cried solely because of the story.  Last night I waited until Moi was sound asleep, and while there was no sound in the house but the blower on the wood pellet stove, I reread it.  This time when I finished I cried uncontrollably for a half an hour.  Again I don’t know if this was solely because of the story.  But whenever my crying would subside for a moment I would reread the last two sentences and again the tears and mucous would well up: “He would just wait for that thing you see that wasn’t there the last time you looked.  He would wait for the whispers.”  Moi has gone out hunting again today – out my office window it looks very cold outside. 

State of the Path:  I select the same stick I used yesterday; it’s not as long as I’d like it to be, but it has some heft and a nice, what I imagine to be aerodynamic, bend to it.  The chickens are huddling in a lilac bush; I wonder if they find enough to eat this time of year, maybe seeds and nuts.  On the ground, looks like the same flecks and patches of snow as were there yesterday.  The water over the cement slabs has dried up, the ground crunchy underfoot.  I take the side path.  Mway turns around from the main path to follow.  Seems very quiet, very still, along the old orchard and back to the main path, except for a slight breeze.  I begin thinking I’m not going to see anything, when suddenly a gray body appears, disappearing behind a maple trunk.  I at first take it for a bird, but I know it was a squirrel; I don’t know why it’s in a tree among the maples.  I keep my eyes on the tree for a while but I don’t see it again.  At the wigwams, the water on the path is starting to freeze.  Across bug land, some birds are stirring in the shrubs along the creek, probably black-capped chickadees.  They fly off  before I get to where they were.

State of the Creek:  The water flows quietly, but at the former log jam, a thin shelf of ice seizes the far bank.  A multiflora briar makes a grab for my cap.  I stop quickly, take a step back.  The briar unloosens, and I duck under it and continue forward.  At the narrows I walk upon footprints I left in the flecks of snow yesterday.  I cross the plank, stepping on yesterday’s boot treads and poking the solid ice in the feed channel with my walking stick.  As I round the crest, I look for the rodent skull on the ridge but don’t see it and figure it’s been washed down the bank into the channel and out into the creek.  Recalling the bones I put under a small tree near the “chokeberries” many months ago, I decide to look for them.  I don’t see a skull, but I find two leg bones, frozen into the ground at the base of the tree.  At the ridge, the sun, reflecting harshly off the ice in a marshy spot, suddenly shines bright in my eyes.

The Fetch:  Mway is waiting for me at the clearing, smiling, taking little jittery steps backwards as I walk into position.  I do the circle again, play “Put it down” once, then tell her “that’s enough.”  Back at the house, I’m in a quandary whether Moi already fed Mway early this morning or not, but I dish out some dog food for her anyway.