I’ve arrived in my childhood home of Acton, Massachusetts. I am here for four days on a mission to discover what plants and creatures live here all the time.

Leopold:
The land here was once wilderness. It still has hills and valleys from that time, but it has other ancestors too. Did the floodplain before me form from roaring high water, or a field for sheep? Did the flat bed of gravel hiding under the duff here come from a stream or a road? There are answers here. White Pines tower over dead bundles of ferns, disrupting the plane of cultivation. Up through gravel, dirt, leaves, and into the open sky burst young paper birches. I wandered through this place. A home I had where I had written many stories. A broken tree house, a crude path and a winding trail bear witness to my story here. I stopped to read the other stories. Stonewalls from a bygone era hint at hours of labor in what is now a forgotten backwater of suburbia. The whole land lay across my vision like a mystical kingdom. The breathtaking beauty of snow in the night was not portrayed well by a photo with flash or without. The beauty is visual but must be welcomed with the other senses. This is not a land of milk and honey for those who live here. It is but a brief barrier between two slices of crude civilization. A highway and a house stand guard to watch any creature that dares venture into the haunting beauty of this median of wild.

Holland:
There are many differences that can be noted between any two trips into the woods. Looking closely under leaves and taking paths less traveled will yield different results every time. With that said, here are my findings in Acton, MA as they differ from Burlington, VT. A flurry of wet snow assaults the trees as their branches lean deeper to the ground. Nothing living shows itself. It is time for sleep. The mice and deer are hidden away while it is cold, wet, and dark tonight. Even the leaves of the trees hardly dare show themselves. A naked Beech stands against the snow. Narrow and still, trying not to be seen. Birds of all kinds are gone. No robins sing from the lofty branches. Even the bothersome geese wouldn’t stick out there neck and hiss at a cyclist in weather like this. A snapping turtle slumbers in a muddy brook not far from here. Dreaming of sunny days and gravel driveways perfect for laying nests in. Her human neighbors sleep as well, but they dream of bunnies and bees in that same hot sun. Now is a time to rest through the night and resist the cold. Many of the animals that call this land home are far from here now, such as the wiley college student that flees for months at a time.

 

Here’s a map of my place, a point chosen arbitrarily in my wooded backyard: https://goo.gl/maps/dd4XiSSBVNu.

I feel it more evidently now than ever before, there is a frosty wind on the air. Despite knowing that there is a warm bed and an unlimited dining plan awaiting me throughout the winter I cannot help but feel the urgency in the changing of the seasons. The same urgency that an observer might feel in a late fall afternoon when the sun starts to dip and they grow inexplicably uneasy.  There was little activity at my site on my afternoon venture. No visitors came to see me, though a kit-kat wrapper told me that hadn’t always been the case. In fact, some ducks could be seen fleeing my obnoxious and noisy approach. Perhaps a loud, pink, bicycle is not the most tactful tool for observing a site.

Now, a poem:

My roots grow deep

In the ground,

The frost begins to creep

All around

 

I paddle back

The pond is cold

I hope to quack

Until I’m old

 

Winter is deadly

Branches and mammals both tremble

So we wrote this medley

In the hope that our mood it would resemble

 

Winter is Near.

Winter we Fear.