ONCE ON A SUMMER MORNING
The meadow was a rich shining carpet of high grass thick with dew. The first horizontal rays of the sun piercing the trees were turning the dew into a silver-blue haze reaching half-way to the shrubs and haystacks. A big beautiful bird was walking stately amidst this beauty, its long legs slicing through the dewy mist, half covered by it. It was as though the bird were swimming, carried by silvery waves like a ship with a red bow. The bird was a stork. Now and then it would make a quick movement the eye could hardly follow, taking off, spreading its luxurious wings, as though totally oblivious of the force of gravity, then quickly landing. (I found myself wondering that maybe only we humans were bound by that force, perhaps weighed down by grim thoughts or sins.)
Coming across a stork when taking a stroll in one of the Kyiv suburbs is a rare and happy occasion these days. Man's ruthless and thoughtless endeavors have long crowded out almost all representatives of the animal world. Over the past several years one could watch thousands of swifts living in miniature caves dotting the high slopes over the Chortoryi, dashing through the air, foretelling changes in the weather for those that knew, diminish and then vanish as cars and trucks disfigured, lowered the slopes while countless anglers dug for worms underneath. There is a critically decreasing number of songbirds on the banks of the Dnipro — I am sure because these little creatures with a perfect ear for music cannot bear the roaring and howling of all those radios and tape recorders without which urban residents never go picnicking.
I spotted the stork in the northern part of Trukhaniv Island (actually a miniature peninsula), a place used as a hunting ground by princes during the times of Kyiv Rus. At the period one could hunt for wild animals, hare, elk, and there were countless birds. In fact, animal life was quite active here before WW II. As it is, a wild duck will become a rarity before long. Small wonder, considering that nothing is being done by way of purposeful nature protection. The place has the status of a park, yet no one bars entry to cars and trucks; new roads are laid out, garages built and fenced in every year, looking like fresh scars on beautiful flesh. No trees are planted and old ones are constantly chopped down. Bark is torn off oaks and white poplars to start camp fires right under the trees. We humans are blind, unable to understand that by destroying the beauty of nature we are destroying ourselves.
Meanwhile, surprisingly, there are still living creatures on the island. On very rare occasions, in a very remote corner one can scare off a hare, even less seldom an elk. I saw a young one. It ran out of a small grove. We were both scared by the sudden encounter and ran in the opposite direction from each other. Now and then a nervous quail will fly from under your feet. And one can still hear jay, known as summer nightingales, in nearby brushes and groves. More often than not, however, Trukhaniv Island jealously keeps its animal life from the visitor, especially on a summer day.
So meeting that stork was a very special occasion. After looking for something in the grass it took off, soaring grandly over the meadow, landing in a small pond hidden behind the trees and grown over with lilies. Stealing closer, I noticed another pair having their breakfast of toads. One was a snow-white beautiful male with scarlet legs and beak, and the other an inconspicuous gray female. She would not leave the nest for a minute, not even when she sensed my presence.
A while later I saw three storks fly high over the island, two keeping close, the tips of their wings almost touching, and the third one bringing up the rear. What in the name of God happened to his mate?
The meadow was a rich shining carpet of high grass thick with dew. The first horizontal rays of the sun piercing the trees were turning the dew into a silver-blue haze reaching half-way to the shrubs and haystacks. A big beautiful bird was walking stately amidst this beauty, its long legs slicing through the dewy mist, half covered by it. It was as though the bird were swimming, carried by silvery waves like a ship with a red bow. The bird was a stork. Now and then it would make a quick movement the eye could hardly follow, taking off, spreading its luxurious wings, as though totally oblivious of the force of gravity, then quickly landing. (I found myself wondering that maybe only we humans were bound by that force, perhaps weighed down by grim thoughts or sins.)
Coming across a stork when taking a stroll in one of the Kyiv suburbs is a rare and happy occasion these days. Man's ruthless and thoughtless endeavors have long crowded out almost all representatives of the animal world. Over the past several years one could watch thousands of swifts living in miniature caves dotting the high slopes over the Chortoryi, dashing through the air, foretelling changes in the weather for those that knew, diminish and then vanish as cars and trucks disfigured, lowered the slopes while countless anglers dug for worms underneath. There is a critically decreasing number of songbirds on the banks of the Dnipro — I am sure because these little creatures with a perfect ear for music cannot bear the roaring and howling of all those radios and tape recorders without which urban residents never go picnicking.
I spotted the stork in the northern part of Trukhaniv Island (actually a miniature peninsula), a place used as a hunting ground by princes during the times of Kyiv Rus. At the period one could hunt for wild animals, hare, elk, and there were countless birds. In fact, animal life was quite active here before WW II. As it is, a wild duck will become a rarity before long. Small wonder, considering that nothing is being done by way of purposeful nature protection. The place has the status of a park, yet no one bars entry to cars and trucks; new roads are laid out, garages built and fenced in every year, looking like fresh scars on beautiful flesh. No trees are planted and old ones are constantly chopped down. Bark is torn off oaks and white poplars to start camp fires right under the trees. We humans are blind, unable to understand that by destroying the beauty of nature we are destroying ourselves.
Meanwhile, surprisingly, there are still living creatures on the island. On very rare occasions, in a very remote corner one can scare off a hare, even less seldom an elk. I saw a young one. It ran out of a small grove. We were both scared by the sudden encounter and ran in the opposite direction from each other. Now and then a nervous quail will fly from under your feet. And one can still hear jay, known as summer nightingales, in nearby brushes and groves. More often than not, however, Trukhaniv Island jealously keeps its animal life from the visitor, especially on a summer day.
So meeting that stork was a very special occasion. After looking for something in the grass it took off, soaring grandly over the meadow, landing in a small pond hidden behind the trees and grown over with lilies. Stealing closer, I noticed another pair having their breakfast of toads. One was a snow-white beautiful male with scarlet legs and beak, and the other an inconspicuous gray female. She would not leave the nest for a minute, not even when she sensed my presence.
A while later I saw three storks fly high over the island, two keeping close, the tips of their wings almost touching, and the third one bringing up the rear. What in the name of God happened to his mate?
Newspaper output №:
№31, (1999)Section
Culture
