The pontoon bobbed in the water as I stepped onto the deck, clutching binoculars and trying to contain my excitement. Since moving to the Northwoods in the middle of winter, I had been waiting for the chance to see a loon, and my chance finally arrived in late May. The sunlight danced across the water as our boat left the dock, and we began our search. It wasn't long before we spotted the silhouette of a loon off in the distance, and headed for a closer look.

Crack! Rumble, rumble, rumble. Crack! The sound of hard objects pelting my metal roof shot through my open bedroom window, rousing me from the last wisps of sleep. Then silence. I braced myself as a soft hush of wind drew closer. Crack! The wind triggered a new spatter of noises. The house was under attack—by acorns.

Two large red oak trees reach the edges of their canopies out over the roof of my house. Each fall, they create a racket as acorns drop on the metal roof, tumble down the steep slope, and launch out over the driveway. Some years are worse than others, since oaks are mast trees who will produce a bumper crop in one year, then spend subsequent years rebuilding their stores of nutrients and not producing as many acorns. This is clearly a mast year.

Shades of Rot and Life
(This essay is a chapter from Emily’s third book, Natural Connections3: A Web Endlessly Woven, which will arrive in November 2025!)
In the dim light, under the thick, hardwood canopy of the forest, death was everywhere.
Of course, life was everywhere too.