The Western Meadowlark

These photo’s were taken yesterday at the entrance to Predator Ridge!



One comment

  1. These photos of a dear childhood friend of Spring remind me of one of my favourite stories that resonates deeply within me whenever I walk on or drive through a prairie landscape, a part of the giant photo album and collection of film clips stored in my mind’s eye, so beautifully rendered in the concluding words of Who Has Seen the Wind by W. O. Mitchell.
    “The day greys, its light withdrawing from the winter sky till just the prairie’s edge is luminous. At one side of the night a farm dog barks; another answers him. A coyote lifts his howl, his throat line long to the dog nose pointing out the moon. A train whoops to the night, the sound dissolving slowly.
    High above the prairie, platter flat, the wind wings on, bereft and wild its lonely song. It ridges drifts and licks their ripples off; it smoothens crests, piles snow against the fences. The tinting of Northern Lights slowly shades and fades against the prairie nights, dying here, imperceptibly reborn over there. Light glows each evening where the town lies; a hiving sound is there with now and then some sound distinct and separate in the night, a shout, a woman’s laugh. Clear ––– truant sound.
    As clouds’ slow shadows melt across the prairie’s face more nights slip darkness over. Light, then dark, then light again. Day, then night, then day again. A meadow lark sings and it is spring. And summer comes.
    A year is done.
    Another comes and it is done.
    Where spindling poplars lift their dusty leaves and wild sunflowers stare, the gravestone stand among the prairie grasses. Over them a rapt and endless silence lies. This soil is rich.
    Here to the West, a small dog’s skeleton lies, its rib bones clutching emptiness. Crawling in and out of the jaw-bone’s teeth an ant casts about; it disappears into an eye socket, reappears to begin a long pilgrimage down the backbone spools.
    The wind turns in silent frenzy upon itself, whirling into a smoking funnel, breathing up top soil and tumbleweed skeletons to carry them on its spinning way over the prairie, out and out to the flat line of the sky.”

    W.O. Mitchell. Who Has Seen the Wind. Toronto: The MacMillan Company of Canada Limited, 1947, pp. 343-344.


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