It’s the birds, first and foremost, a more audible than visible beauty. Here in the middle of the Midwest, we boast an abundance of songbirds, along with the occasional raucous raven or crow — still not sure about the difference. But how lucky we are to have birdsongs herald spring’s arrival. Cardinals and robins, chickadees and sparrows — and less familiar migrants, temporary guests, singing and winging their way elsewhere.
The Trump administration hasn’t banned these migrants yet, but they will if they can figure out a way to tariff-y them. They already cracked down on Brookfield Zoo for hosting a bio-diversity program — diversity being a dirty word now in the dungeons of power, even in the animal world.
There is beaucoup bio-diversity in Oak Park and River Forest, unless they make a federal case about it.
A team of dedicated observers track our finer feathered migrants, including mountain bluebirds this spring. These sharp-eyed and -eared birders call themselves the Oak Park Area Migration Bird Walks group. As they will no doubt tell you, birds as we know them took over when the dinosaurs bit the dust and their smallness suddenly became an evolutionary advantage. They inherited the Earth. According to the PBS show, Nova, they easily outnumber all the mammals on the planet.
And we are the beneficiaries. Their songs sweeten and soothe, serenading us at the start of each new day — a soulful, healing soundtrack to our lives should we choose to tune in.
Other critters bound and abound — squirrels, rabbits, chipmunks, raccoons, possums, fox, coyote, deer. Mice and rats, too, though we’d rather not see them. And an astonishing number of dogs and cats keep us company. Animals, it seems, never got the memo that humanity has outgrown the rest of nature. They seem quite comfortable living among us — or flying over. Hawks and turkey vultures are always on the lookout, the bane of smaller mammals. And twice a year like clockwork, the long-necked, elegant sandhill cranes bugle their muted salute as they pass high overhead.
Trees likewise please. We are blessed with a vast — dare I say diverse — array, mostly deciduous, green and lush and leafy. Our tree inventory branched out after Japanese beetles and emerald ash-borers ravaged our Dutch elms and green ashes. Once upon a parkway, long, lanky, graceful-limbed elms dominated. Our lack of bio-diversity did them in, since replaced by a more diversified Tree City U.S.A. portfolio, though you can’t really see the forest for the trees — unless you enjoy a high-rise overlook.
Did you know there are more trees on Earth than stars in our galaxy? That’s what they said on Nova last week. Many are in bloom right now, with more to come. It’s been a good spring for magnolias, which dodged freezer burn in the nick of temps. Forsythia add sunshine yellow to the color palette. And pear trees peaked on Oak Park Avenue just south of the railroad tracks, possibly their final bloom, as scheduled street renewal might mean their demise. If so, they are going out in one last cloud of white-blossomed glory.
We are not alone, not by a longshot. Much more than a village, we are also an eco-system. Canada geese love our grassy lawns and deer love our shrubbery. Great blue herons have been known to raid our koi ponds. We are a strand, making our stand in the interconnected web of existence.
Our gardens are well tended and intended — wilderness tamed and domesticated. We plant milkweed to feed the monarch butterflies on their migratory paths. We plant flowers for the bees, whom we now call “pollinators.” We compost and mulch and fertilize our grassy squares and rectangles and broad lawns — or have them manicured by crews with infernal noisemakers. We co-exist with cicadas, ants, wasps, mosquitos, ladybugs, earthworms and fireflies.
We “steward” our natural “resources,” “cultivate” and live “sustainably,” harvest then replenish our soil, employing the power of decay and mulchified reinvigoration. We are naturalists, “indwelling habitat,” reducing our “carbon footprint,” at least until Trump issues an executive order revoking our woke lifestyles.
Here in our paved prairie overlay, we don’t feature breathtaking landscapes to go with our landmarks, but there is natural beauty here, visible in the nodding daffodils and towering tulips, super-illuminated in the slanted sunlight of morning and evening, and the beaming beatdown of summer afternoons. We will never be mistaken for a national park, but four distinct seasons make their way through the calendar’s turnstiles each year. We are blessed with variety that spices lives. We are visited by peekaboo sun and sufficient rain, the clouds performing their year-long celestial ballet in the vault above. We are yet blessed by a temperate climate that leans more toward moderation than extremes, though we don’t know how long our luck will hold.
Humid to a fault, we enjoy sweet spots, meteorologically speaking — intense greening in the spring, dense abundance overhanging every summer, embraceable hues ripening in the fall, slumber with powdered-sugar dustings of snow in winter.
There are many worse places to live, few better.
This Earth Day we have cause for pause and modest celebration. We don’t brag about our beauty, but if you take the time to look for it, you’ll find just enough to go around.