On Tue, Nov 17, 2020 at 10:54 AM Susan Tiholiz <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> I misunderstood and thought the tape deck sound was coming from
> nuthatches. Definitely better coming from squirrels!
> Susan Tiholiz
> 214-478-7395 (cell)
> > On Nov 17, 2020, at 10:50 AM, Ted Levin <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> > 6:42 a.m. 30 degrees, wind SE 0 mph. Sky: the sun sneaks into position
> > behind a thick bank of clouds, fissures and holes brushed by silver
> > a faint, uncluttered blush in the east . . . more transitory than a
> > Permanent streams: spills over and around stones, miniature cascades, a
> > rejoice of babble . . . a soothing, auditory banquet. Someone needs to
> > listen to streams; home for the indefinite future, I'm perfectly suited
> > the job. Wetlands: color and sound muted, not a single flyover.
> > in an unseen pine(s), a tweezer-billed chatter, red crossbills out for
> > breakfast. Pond: a mishmash of ice, unconnected panes and shards, snow
> > flurries bouncing on the ice, more ball than crystal, some stick, some
> > melt, a seasonal seasoning.
> > A female hairy woodpecker works a dead pine, gentle taps as if loosening
> > jar's lid, chips of air-cured bark float down. Both red-breasted and
> > white-breasted nuthatches call, nasal notes repeated, both monotonous,
> > red's clearer, higher, and shorter than white's—a head-cold serenade. In
> > the mid-nineties, when The Traveling Wilburys released their first
> album, I
> > strived to recognize the voices of Tom Petty and George Harrison. (Bob
> > Dylan and Roy Orbison were easy.) Nuthatches are like that, at first:
> > and nasal versus shorter and more nasal. Pausing, I listen to
> > gravity-defying tedium. The dogs, bewildered, a pair of clueless canines.
> > Many years ago, when I studied wildlife biology as an undergraduate, our
> > class subdivided Delaware county, Indiana, into a grid system. On
> > designated mornings, I drove my grid and counted roadkills—raccoon, red
> > fox, long-tailed weasel, thirteen-lined ground squirrel, and so on. Back
> > class, we used a formula (long since forgotten) based on the number of
> > roadkills to index each species' population.
> > I don't think that formula applies to DOR pinecones. Since late August, a
> > shower has littered my walking route, cut and left by red squirrels. Most
> > of the cones are gone now, retrieved by squirrels; a few pulverized into
> > the dirt road, a sticky, white resinous stain—a reminder of the
> > overproduction in the natural world. If I need further proof that 2020 is
> > the *Autumn of the Pinecone,* I listen for lingering crossbills and watch
> > the red squirrels attend their own cone caches and raid their neighbors',
> > lots of helter-skelter rushing and whirring voices like tapedecks run