The ptarmigan (photo by Bob)
I have been watching the tracks, oddly narrow winding trails imprinted in the snow, patterns as random as a coyote’s across an open field; these now scattered about the base of the willows alongside the frozen river.
No matter how I have looked, they have remained obscure. I have continued to search but can not see white on white. There is little life here in the winter. We seek out what we can, some natural attraction to know we are not alone.
They are at home here in the snow as are we. More a part of the landscape than we will ever be. We share the solitude. We become fleeting glances of passing wings, then allow the landscape to return undisturbed leaving only impermanent paths in the snow that will fade away as the next storm blows over.
Yesterday we came close to one another, I in their space or they in mine? We allow for the passing of the other and continue on our way. But not without their obvious unease, and my admiration of their natural beauty.
Ptarmigan in flight
Like a sudden gust of wind, they scattered before me in so many numbers as I unknowingly approached too close, a burst of white wing, feather and snow alike, a flash of snow in flight. They settled again, then walked, scurried along the snow like a tiny boat in water, and buried themselves into the snow for an effective camouflage. Only the black of their eyes and beak could be seen. They belong here, a barely apparent part of the land, part of the snow, part of the air when they take flight, a scattering of white feathers in a sky which seems too blue.
Soft and white, perfect as the downy snowy hillside on which they seek temporary refuge. They disperse but do not go far. I wish to take chase, a bird dog’s passionate pursuit, if only to steal another glimpse, an inner desire to seek out the elusive. I allow them their retreat, turn my focus, and continue to walk the fair trail through the willows alone.
A ptarmigan deep in the snow