There is something of the reverence and deep silence of a gothic cathedral - a walk in the winter. Nature, usually so lively, so loud, turns off the music, and all other noise. Nothing but the sound of your shoes beating the pavement, maybe a random leaf finally giving up and shedding from a high branch. Defeated by the shy whisper of a February, sharp, but timid breeze.
For three weekends, we have been kept inside by unseasonably (for North Carolina) cold, rainy, snowy or frozen weather. This weekend we ventured out because it was the first one with no precipitation. But it was cold. Man, it was cold. But our bodies needed it. And our minds needed it more.
Even the puppies out for walks were speechless. Their owners, sleepy heads hurrying through (you could read cabin fever all over their puffy eyes), were blowing hot air into their high collars and rushing along. "Let's get this over with" written all over their faces. Not many people out. Nor creatures.
The usual liveliness of nature in the warmer season - the swishing of the bushes, the fish leaping from the creek besides us, the birds chasing in the thicket - none of this was there. It was just us, the crisp air, fingers almost frozen inside gloves, and focusing on the nature around us to find something, anything, to shoot. Trees, dead grasses, the murky creek asleep, frozen in time.
But life was there ... if you listened. If you looked. There were squirrels chasing each other, birds silent, but awake and puffed up to keep warm. It felt like the cold weather froze the birds' song. The sky was cloudless and the sun blinding. With no leaves, not much shade was there. The sun was there, but it gave no heat.
When the sun hit the water just so, at some point, it must have woken up a family of frogs because for a brief minute they started singing so loud - their shrieks sounded mad, but they could have also been just saying thanks for a few rays of light. If you closed your eyes and you forgot the frostbite in your fingers, you'd think it's summertime - the frogs, so desperate! And then it got quiet again. Like a tomb. Just silent.
And then, the king. This beautiful (I think) hawk, just sitting there. Observing. Not more than maybe 20 feet from us, on a fallen tree. Majestic and lofty. Taking in the grounds like it were his kingdom. Demanding respect. Towering.
For a few minutes, he stood there, gracing us with a couple of head tilts for a couple of shots. Then, he drifted away in the woods, quiet and barely there ... Like a ghost ...
It would have been so easy to miss him. He made no noise. He was not moving. He was the color of the dead trees around him - brown and gray: we could have totally missed him. And yet, if you listen, if you watch, if you look to understand - life is always there.
Our trail guardian: a red-shouldered hawk (I think)
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