In the Fog

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.  
-- Anne Sexton

The fog hung thickly around me as I walked a road through woods near my home early in the morning on the first day of spring. The air was cool and moist on a day that promised to rise into the mid 70s, even though we are still in the middle of March. 

Morning fog (Margo D. Beller)

The fog grayed out everything including the still-bare trees, the shrubs and grasses starting to go green. It obscured the street lights from the nearby food pantry and the cars that were invisible until nearly upon me.

Birds seem different in the fog. Their calls and songs seem louder. I walked and heard a Carolina wren, a little bird with a big song. I stopped to look up and there it was, a small, dark shape on a high branch. It was not perturbed by the fog. Its instinct says it is time to announce its breeding territory. This bird was not alone. By the time I got home an hour later I heard at least five Carolina wrens as well as a number of other birds including fish crows, cardinals and a few robins.

There was no one at the dog park. Is it the early hour - just after dawn - or the fog that has kept people and their pets away? Or something else? I wondered. There were few cars driving this road, too. I had my solitude but had to walk quickly because I didn't have much time before I had to start work.

It was 7:15 on a Friday morning in the age of COVID-19.

Normally, the road and the dog park would be busier. Early on, the few people I saw during my walk either traveled in a different direction or, if we passed each other, rigorously stayed on the other side of the street to give us "social distance." If we made eye contact we smiled or nodded our heads. One man gave me a little wave. On the way home the runners came out, most staying in the street but a few were on the sidewalk. I gave those a wide berth.

(Margo D. Beller)

This is a dangerous and uncertain time. MH has been ill and the day before this walk I had begun feeling strange, perhaps unwell. To me this felt like a cold. The common cold is caused by a coronavirus, after all. But THIS one, COVID-19, is a different beast. Too much computer work gives me a headache. Is this what caused today's. The weather has been cold and damp. Is that why I can't feel warm? I haven't the foggiest idea.

MH, in that scientific manner of his, reasons he has a mild form of COVID-19. He has stayed home and rests in the guest room. He reasons the flu shot we had in October is helping his immune system fight this virus, and I hope that is the case for both of us. 

I am taking the attitude of an old friend, who said his way of dealing with illness is to ignore it. Unfortunately, it is hard to do when the news seems to be nothing but this virus, how nations are reacting to limit its spread and how many have died. Those of us with mild symptoms are told to stay home and avoid emergency rooms, and I am more than happy to do that. I am lucky I can work from home and continue to be paid. Many, many others can't stay home because of the nature of their jobs or because if they don't work they don't get paid. I was in that situation until a few months ago.

The morning fog lingered into afternoon as the temperature rose and children who have been blocked from school, sporting events and even gathering in town parks kept their playing to their yards or took walks or bike rides with their parents along my side street. I could see and hear them through my open office window. I don't blame them. I need to get out or go crazy, too. 

Overnight it rained, the fog lifted and the temperature fell to a more seasonable level. The birds were waiting for me this dawn to come out with the feeders, particularly the male cardinal that flies to a nearby bush as I hang them and then rushes to eat at the house-shaped feeder when I am back on the porch.

Empty dog park, streetlight through the trees (Margo D. Beller)

This Saturday morning I waited for the sun to break through the clouds as I  watched him and the other birds. At one point I heard a hairy woodpecker, an uncommon and skittish visitor. One appeared at the suet to eat but I kept hearing the call coming from another direction. Then she flew off and the male appeared. A pair! I'm supporting a breeding pair of hairy woodpeckers! I am protective of hairys. I rarely see them except at the suet feeder. This is why I put out suet, I thought.

This is why I feed birds.

Life goes on, these hairy woodpeckers were telling me. You might have your virus scaring the hell out of you but we have other things to concern us. We must mate, build a nest that is hidden and inaccessible - perhaps in one of these big trees in your yard - and create a family to carry on our species. Your feeder helps us, yes, but if wasn't here we'd do what we always do and find food to survive.

We all have to survive, I agreed as I watched these birds with tears in my eyes. I hope we all do.

In the Mists

Circumstances have changed for me. Once again I must get up in near-darkness, just before dawn, if I want to get out for a walk before work.

I am a creature of habit, and when a habit or routine changes I feel upended until I establish a new routine.

Early rising wouldn't be a problem when the prospect of finding all sorts of northbound migrant birds would've had me up early anyway, walking slowly and listening, peering in the bad light for any movement in trees only just leafing out.

Fog (Margo D. Beller)

But in late summer the days are already getting shorter. The southbound birds are passing through quietly because they have no need to show off for potential mates or claim territory. The sun is low on the horizon and it is wonderfully cool before the three Hs - hazy, hot and humid - make their appearance.

What I have found on these walks have been local breeding birds -- chipping sparrows, cardinals, titmice -- flying around with their young. Or I find goldfinches, who are late breeders because they only eat the weed seeds that appear at this time of year. The bright yellow males perform high loop-de-loops as they impress females and protect territories.

I know that soon I won't even see that because it will still be dark before 7 am, especially when we go back to standard time.

And then, once in a while, Mother Nature throws a curve.

Orb web over plantings. (Margo D. Beller)

This particular morning I am writing about, I rose before the alarm buzzer -- I used to wake with the daylight but at the time I must rise it is still dark -- and was out the door by 6:15 am into a thick, unexpected fog.

Humidity, cooling temperatures overnight, I don't know what caused it but visibility was low and I knew it would be thicker where I was headed, to the fields of the former Greystone Park mental hospital, now the Central Park of Morris County.

It is always cooler in there, even in summer. There are no houses or sidewalks, only tall, shady trees and plants. It is only when my route takes me along town streets lined with houses and filled with anxious commuters zipping by in their cars that things seem to warm up quickly.

With the thick fog, my only concern was whether I'd be seen by one of those early-morning commuters, but at the hour I was walking there were few cars, outnumbered by walkers who were as startled to see me coming out of the fog as I was of them.

Ground web (Margo D. Beller)

The birds were not active, and their contact calls seemed tentative, for want of a better word. The white-breasted nuthatches I heard sounded more aggrieved, their nasal "hank, hank, hank" louder than usual. You can't fly very high or far in thick fog.

So while I wasn't seeing much in the way of birds, I discovered the spiders had been very busy.

On sunny summer days I don't notice webs unless they are spectacularly big or right in front of me. I've probably passed hundreds of webs hung out to catch a meal.

However, on this foggy, damp day, the condensation on the silk highlighted the intricate designs and you couldn't help but notice them.

Some were strung up high between trees. Others were over patches of lawn. I found a few draped over shrubs and other plants. When I see them in my garden they tell me there are a lot of insects hanging around. If I find a web over a particularly enticing flower I know bees will visit, I take down the web. The spider scampers away. The next day I find a new web in a nearby area.

Look carefully for the suspended web. (Margo D. Beller)

Spiders rebuild their webs all the time, so I don't feel particularly cruel about doing this.

Years ago, around this time of year, I was on Monhegan Island in Maine for a short visit. In our travels I rescued several monarch butterflies from spider webs draped over the sweet-scented dune roses. Monarchs have a hard enough time trying to make it south to Mexico for the winter without becoming a spider's supper.

Of course, spiders have to eat, too. They are very good at taking out the silverfish and other annoying house insects and we give the spiders free rein -- if they are small.

The largest spider we ever had in the house was the wolf spider. How it got into the house I don't know but spiders have a way of squeezing themselves through window screens.

My husband, who grew up sleeping in a basement where he'd find spiders, millipedes and centipedes, took the wolf spider and put it in our basement. I haven't seen it since, which is just as well.

We're both happier this way.