On every trip to Owen Sound, I drive past a field that got worked up in the fall. Although it was often covered with snow, there were times when the damp, bare ground showed through.

As the snow left, the field slowly from a rich brown to a pale beige. On the weekend, there was just one dark strip. The rest looked pale and empty.

That appearance of emptiness is a deception.

The remnants of last fall’s crop of beans were turned into the ground, have been decomposing, adding nutrients to the soil. There are worms in that earth. And microbes. Likely insect eggs. There are weed seeds swelling, starting to sprout – just before planting the field will be worked once more to limit the weeds’ growth, which will add more nutrients though it will disturb the worms and the soil texture.

Soon, new seed will be placed in the renewed earth.

In other places, there are large fields of a hundred acres that will be planted in a single crop. What we will see there is a mono-culture.

And in places, pesticides will limit the diversity of insect life and plants.

But even in those fields, the leftovers of last year’s crop – maybe the thin remnants of soy beans, possibly the heavy stalks of corn where cobs were picked – will be worked into the soil to nourish it. And we are told that hollow stems, like the corn stalks, are used by insects to over-winter.

The field I drive by, like the fields on the farm where I lived, is surrounded by rocky fence rows.

There, mature trees grow. Raspberry canes and grape vines can flourish. Chipmunks and squirrels hide among the rocks. Fields like this are surrounded by life. It looks empty as it dries, but it is anything but.

When I moved to this part of the shore, I was told there are no fish here. You have to go out to the place the water changes colour, where the bay suddenly becomes deep, to find fish. And sure enough, fishing boats troll that part of the bay all summer long.

But within days of moving, I noticed fishing birds.

Mergansers are common here. A pair, a gang, will swim along, quite near the shore, diving down to reappear a distance away. These birds eat fish. “Where there are fishing birds, there are fish,” I declared.

Among the rocks that line the bottom of the bay, we have found crayfish. Likely this is what the mergansers find. Kayaking in the shallow water, I have sometimes seen larger fish. And an eagle regularly patrols the shore here. I doubt crayfish are its catch. It appears that the rocky bay floor is barren, but there is life.

We know this about deciduous trees.

Maple and ash and birch trees are bare and empty all winter. We see the structure of their branches. We see the remnants of bird nests. For most of the winter, an empty paper wasp nest hung on a high branch over the road. These tell the story of active life last summer, and the story of winter’s rest. But the young queens from that wasp nest are hiding in a crevice, waiting. The birds have flown to their winter foraging grounds. And the trees are waiting.

We know that when the sun warms the trees, when the air temperature rises, sap will flow, and trees will leaf out. They got a good start in that warm weather a couple weeks ago. Since then, there has been the barest tint of green. But warmth is coming, and the full spread of green is just around the corner.

We know this about trees. But we’re learning that the hollow grey stems of sedum and the layer of crisp dead leaves are home to the insects of summer. I’ve watched grackles hop through those dead leaves, turning them over, finding their meals before the insects waken. Those dead leaves hide life.

The human perspective on life is limited.

So much is hidden from us that birds can sense, that other creatures know.

Watching them, and listening to those who study the lifecycles of fascinating little creatures, can open us to all with whom we share this ecosystem.

Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway Nation.

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