Ely Street Poet

I heard a cacophony of loud calls coming from the back yard this morning. I recognized it. It belonged to a raven and there wasn’t anything particularly different about it, except that it seemed louder than I was used to. Since the temps have warmed up to be in the 40s early in the morning I’ve taken to opening the back door and listening to the birds. The cats can come in and go out into the fenced yard that they’ve been impatiently waiting to enjoy since last fall.

That meant Poirot (our tuxedo cat) was sitting on a pillow in “his” red Adirondack chair and observing the world go by, taking in the birdsong and the cold breezes. The sparrows and starlings were singing and the hammering of a woodpecker on the electrical pole was keeping a steady rhythm for the morning. It could be either a pileated or a hairy, I couldn’t see them when I got up and went to the door, so I wasn’t sure which.

What I did see was a huge raven sitting right at the peak of our garage roof, leaning over its edge, barking at Poirot whose chair was directly underneath and in front of him a couple of yards. They were having a stare-down which involved a lot of loud yelling on the raven’s part and no sounds at all from our cat. Not the low growl that sometimes signifies that he’s very interested or possessive of something and not the short, staccato bird noises he is known to make when he bird watches through the windows from inside.

It didn’t seem that Poirot was intimidated, but the raven was definitely acting aggressive -- bobbing its head up and down and shifting back and forth on its dinosaurish black clawed feet, pushing its head down and out towards the cat about 15 feet below it. Perhaps it was actually on defense and I was interpreting wrong. Perhaps it wanted to be friends. I think that it recognized a pugilistic opponent and it was ready to defend its territory.

Poirot doesn’t think in those terms that I’m aware of. He leaves that to his brother, Mr. David Byrne, the Jack Russell Terrier. David spends sunny afternoons “chasing” birds in the sky, especially the larger, noisier ones like gulls and ravens. He races all around the backyard with his eyes to the sky if they so much as fly over our house, let alone light upon the green shingled roof of his garage. David wasn’t up yet, though. David was only peacefully dreaming of chases, his white paws twitching and tail shivering where he lay on his bed of David blankets.

I stepped out onto our little back porch and looked the raven in his beady black eyes and said, “Hey, leave him alone, stop all the barking.” At which point he cocked his head at me, looked back down at Poirot (who stared up with his fastidious, tuxedoed, unbothered manner) and then he flew off to hunt some pigeons.

I went back inside for my coffee. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the ice that is still on the lakes. I imagine we all have. How this time of year, we all become impatient for the walking on water to be over, how we long for the lakes to be freed from their temporary crust.

I’m in need of more sun and the sense of expansiveness that comes with open water. I’m in need of a walleye on the end of a tugging line. I’m in need of more birds and wildlife and new faces as well. You all are great, but I for one am happy to hear about the return of the first loon. The swans have been back for weeks now, and the owls and hawks are hunting smammals with the retreat of the snow. I’ve seen more and more ducks and geese overhead and in the rivers this past week. I’m ready for some new people, or some of my old people that have been inside all winter, because that’s what happens.

We retreat after summer and fall, we’re burned out, exhausted and many of us embrace the seclusion of winter. Like the little northern red-backed vole we nest and tunnel in our own subnivean zone, “under the snow” content with our roots and our wood stove heat and a cache of great books, movies and projects. Spring has sprung, now though, and that’s all over for another year.

Now that I think about it, I wonder if the raven wasn’t just shouting the arrival of spring and trying to get Poirot to play and enjoy the day. I think it’s time we all answered that call. I like to think that Ely’s the perfect place to (once there’s open water, of course) extend our lake ripples out to the rest of the world. To create change and make a difference right here by how we interact with visitors and treat our neighbors, friends and relatives. Just like that rock you would pitch into the still, mirrored-finish lake before sunset as a kid, just to watch the ripples spread like the larger waves do on Gichigami.

Anyway, it’s getting nicer each day and I’m looking forward to open water, open golf courses, open wilderness and open arms.