There is a time between the sun and the moon when the Earth seems to pause on its axis. For about a quarter of an hour, there is prevailing peace. Daytime hunters and gatherers settle in for the night; nocturnal creatures emerge from their dens. It’s that period of the day when shoes are kicked off and dinner dishes are taken out of the cupboard, when it is neither light nor dark, right before the rising song of spring peepers overpowers the senses — the blue hour.
I walked through this beautiful time of day one evening last week, down a winding path shrouded by massive pine trees to the edge of a lake.
Reflecting off the quiet water, I recall how the wise oak trees stood as witnesses. Birdsong reverberated through the woods — a soprano concerto written by Mother Nature for the trill voice of a goldfinch, whose song is soon joined by that of the eastern bluebird, the common grackle and many others, to the rapid-fire drumbeat of a downy woodpecker.
The chorus reaches a crescendo and then, in unison, stops.
For a minute, silence reigns.
Only the wind can be heard rustling through the cattails and pulling ripples across the lake as if nature itself is making its bed for the night. The stillness is suddenly broken by a small brown head that breaks the water’s surface — the resident of a nearby lodge.
A North American beaver, venturing out for its nightly logging shift, floats in the middle of the lake. It’s a familiar sight.
Growing up, I walked to the lake often from my parents’ house. Beavers have been living here for as long as I’ve been alive, molding the shoreline’s circumference by sheer industry. Their expansion efforts have historically been kept at bay by local advocates who care for the trails and help to preserve the idyllic lake.
In recent days, however, with isolation orders keeping everyone inside, I’ve noticed the beavers seem to be winning.
Once-towering trees have been reduced to pointed stumps; the dam seems to get larger with every visit; the waterline creeps ever-closer to the woods, threatening to create even more vernal pools than already exist.
In the absence of humans, the beavers are taking over.
After a minute, another head appears. To the unobservant passerby, it could be a log. On closer inspection, I see that it’s looking at me, sizing me up. Then another pops up from the dark water, then another and another. On my walk home, I count seven beavers, maybe more.
I’m so intrigued by their activity that I almost don’t notice the peepers, which have broken the silence with their cheerful song. It’s the sound of nature taking over.
Andy Castillo is the features editor at the Greenfield Recorder. He holds a master’s degree in creative nonfiction and can be reached at acastillo@recorder.com.