‘The silence goes on for miles’

I carry what are called reporters’ notebooks and on a recent cold, sunny morning I was going over some notes and read, "Molly's 10.18," which meant nothing to me. Was I meeting someone named Molly on the 18th? Was Molly going to telephone that day? These lapses in memory are becoming more common and, instead of worrying about it, I just decided to wait for this Molly person to show up at my place. She never did. Again, rather like the characters in Beckett's "Waiting for Godot," Vladimir and Estragon believe that their lives will change and become better once Godot arrives and, of course, he never does.

Just up the road from me is a remnant of a dead tree, a remnant often occupied by a spooky and fabulous creature, a vulture. A few mornings ago, she was on her perch, wings spread wide, facing the sun, warming up to start her day. I stopped my car, turned off the engine, and watched. It felt a little religious, and maybe even a little intrusive, watching a wild thing going about her business, not knowing of my presence, like her eyes were closed while my soul kept watching, smiling, understanding the aloneness of her journey.

It was a day for birds. Later in the afternoon a catbird slammed into a sunroom window. My beautiful black and gray friend lay peacefully on the ground, as if asleep. I put on some leather gloves and went out to pick her up, having no plan as to what I would do with her little body. As I approached, I spoke to her, told her I was sorry she had reached the end of her days at my window and when I reached down to pick her up, she took off. There is no deep meaning to any of this, just an old man living alone in three-quarter time, noticing, always noticing, sometimes wishing he didn't.

Yes, I talk to animals. It is often totally silent out here, no human voices except my own, and my voice is soft, so it rarely frightens the creatures that share this earth with me. The poet Bill Holm wrote, "The silence goes on for miles," and that pretty well describes it. Here I can be heard, even if it's just a soft tone addressing both wild and domesticated creatures. It makes me happy, taking me past all grief, even if only for a moment.

Speaking of noticing things, I have noted that there aren't nearly as many woolly bear caterpillars crossing the highways as there once were. You know the ones I mean, the fuzzy black and orange ones that turn into tiger moths, and this past summer the butterfly population was way down. I'm a little concerned and if any of you are entomologists, please tell the world why these things are happening, because I'm guessing it's not good news.

The days continue to grow shorter. That's bothersome to many because we are naturally drawn to the light and these days darkness seems to cover the earth. Whenever possible, even we melancholics want to live in the light and, with any luck, we do so in the grace and love of a person we watch sleeping quietly in the early mornings, a face calm and untroubled, a person we still talk to. Today the only sound is a tender breeze murmuring through the trees, and I wish you were here. Oh, and if you know Molly, have her call me.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.