Between Grass And Sky: Where I Live And Work

Learning to See the Unseen

L E A R N I N G T O S E E T H E U N S E E N 2 3 For years I was haunted by invisible birds. In summer, riding my horse, I heard nearby twittering, as though dozens of birds were singing on my shoulder. Quickly, I’d look overhead; nothing. I’d look down, toward the buffalo grass that our cows turn into beef; even a very small bird ought to be visible in grass that is six inches tall. If I couldn’t see them, I couldn’t identify or write about them. Finally, I wrote about them anyway, and a bird-watcher told me they are horned larks, Eremophila alpestris. I grabbed my bird book—so naive I only had one before I realized that even a casual observer needs at least three—and examined photographs showing another of the brownish-gray birds whose camouflage suits them so well to the prairie. This one dresses for success with a black necktie and eye mask; another black patch marks the “horns,” feathers on the head that can stand erect. In flight, said the experts, its song is a high-pitched tinkling that sounds “brittle in the frozen air,” and it is related to the Eurasian skylark. I closed the book, and drove out to a stock dam to feed the cattle, thinking about feed supplies and the weather. I didn’t expect to encounter horned larks until spring. I scattered hay, then drove to the dam to chop a hole in the ice so the cattle could drink. ••• Hasselstrom/1-24 6/13/02 10:46 AM Page 23 2 4 • b e t w e e n g r a s s a n d s k y As I shut off the motor, a bird alighted on a rock beside the truck, and tinkled at me. A horned lark. Tiny black feather “horns” stood up on his—or her—head; around its neck was a black crescent. The bird might as well have been carrying a sign. I believe it is important to know about the natural world, but this demonstrated a corollary theory: knowing the bird’s name made it visible to me after thirty years of blindness. The bird pirouetted on the rock several times, making sure I got a good look at its markings. Suddenly I heard the high tinkling notes that had followed me for so many years. I stepped out of the truck and looked up; a flock of larks swooped and darted, playing with the winds. They landed among the cattle, in a fluttering chaos of brown wings, and darted among the huge hoofs pecking seeds. I explained to the birds that if they’d hopped around on the ground under my feet thirty years ago, I would have identified them immediately. My accusations didn’t keep them from snatching hayseeds while twittering cheerily. After I saw the horned larks once, I saw them often, and wondered how I could ever have missed them. Perhaps, I reasoned, they resemble the fairies I believed in as a child: as soon as I could name and believe in them, they could not stay hidden from me: horned larks, the shape-changers of the plains. During recent years when an unusual amount of rain fell, however, I realized I wasn’t seeing or hearing the larks. I consulted one of the many reference works I’ve accumulated while trying to gain a clearer understanding of my neighborhood. “This species,” says the National Audubon Society guide Grasslands, “favors the most barren habitats; as soon as thick grass begins to grow in an area, the birds abandon it.” So I must conclude that the birds are now puzzling and entertaining folks in a drier climate. Like my father before me, I have been careful to limit the number of cattle in our pastures to what the grass could support without damage. In addition, we have enjoyed several years when rainfall was above average, so the pastures have benefited both from human management and from natural conditions. Our gain is clearly also a loss. I will miss the horned larks, but they have become a symbol : every action has an effect, and it’s important to understand, as fully as we are able, the consequences of our actions. Hasselstrom/1-24 6/13/02 10:46 AM Page 24 ...