Living Like Weals By Annie Dillard
A weal is wild. Who knows what he thinks? He sleeps in his underground den, his tail draped over his no. Sometimes he lives in his den for two days without leaving. Outside, he stalks rabbits, mice, muskrats, and birds, killing more bodies than he can eat warm, and often dragging the carcass home. Obedient to instinct, he bites his prey at the neck, either splitting the jugular vein at the throat or crunching the brain at the ba of the skull, and he does not let go . One naturalist refud to kill a weal who was socketed into his hand deeply as a rattlesnake. The man could in no way pry the tiny weal off and he had to walk half a mile to water, the weal dangling from his palm, and soak him off like a stubborn label.
And once, says Ernest Thompson Seton--once, a man shot an eagle out of the sky. He examined the eagle and found the dry skull of a weal fixed by the jaws to his throat. The supposition is that the eagle had pounced on the weal and the weal swiveled and bit a
s instinct taught him, tooth to neck, and nearly won. I would like to have en that eagle from the air a few weeks or months before he was shot: was the whole weal still attached to his feathered throat, a fur pendant? Or did the eagle eat what he could reach, gutting the living weal with his talons before his breast, bending his beak, cleaning the beautiful airborne bones?
I have been reading about weals becau I saw one last week. I startled a weal who startled me, and we exchanged a long glance. 电大答案
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Twenty minutes from my hou, through the woods by the quarry and across the highway, is Hollins Pond, a remarkable piece of shallowness, where I like to go at sunt and sit on a tree trunk. Hollins Pond is also called Murray's Pond; it covers two acres of bottomland near Tinker Creek with six inches of water and six thousand lily pads. In winter, brown-and-white steers stand in the middle of it, merely dampening their hooves; from the distant shore they look like miracle itlf, complete with miracle's nonchalance. Now, in summer, the steers are gone. The water lilies have blossomed and spread to a gr
een horizontal plane that is terra firma to plodding blackbirds, and tremulous ceiling to black leeches, cray\u001Ffish, and carp.
This is, mind you, suburbia. It is a five-minute walk in three directions to rows of hous, though none is visible here. There's a 55 mph highway at one end of the pond, and a nesting pair of wood ducks at the other. Under every bush is a muskrat hole or a beer can. The far end is an alternating ries of fields and woods, fields and woods, threaded everywhere with motorcycle tracks--in who bare clay wild turtles lay eggs.
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So. I had crosd the highway, stepped over two low barbed-wire fences, and traced the motorcycle path in all gratitude through the wild ro and poison ivy of the pond's shoreline up into high grassy fields. Then I cut down through the woods to the mossy fallen tree where I sit. This tree is excellent. It makes a dry, upholstered bench at the upper, marshy end of the pond, a plush jetty raid from the thorny shore between a shallow blue body of water and a deep blue body of sky. 中性洗发水
吃什么护肝养肝The sun had just t. I was relaxed on the tree trunk, ensconced in the lap of lichen, watc
hing the lily pads at my feet tremble and part dreamily over the thrusting path of a carp. A yellow bird appeared to my right and flew behind me. It caught my eye; I swiveled around--and the next instant, inexplicably, I was looking down at a weal, who was looking up at me.
Weal! I'd never en one wild before. He was ten inches long, thin as a curve, a muscled ribbon, brown as fruitwood, soft-furred, alert. His face was fierce, small and pointed as a lizard's; he would have made a good arrowhead. There was just a dot of chin, maybe two brown hairs' worth, and then the pure white fur began that spread down his underside. He had two black eyes I didn't e, any more than you e a window.
The weal was stunned into stillness as he was emerging from beneath an enormous shaggy wild ro bush four feet away. I was stunned into stillness twisted backward on the tree trunk. Our eyes locked, and someone threw away the key.
Our look was as if two lovers, or deadly enemies, met unexpectedly on an overgrown path when each had been thinking of something el: a clearing blow to the gut. It was al
so a bright blow to the brain, or a sudden beating of brains, with all the charge and intimate grate of rubbed balloons. It emptied our lungs. It felled the forest, moved the fields, and drained the pond; the world dismantled and tumbled into that black hole of eyes. If you and I looked at each other that way, our skulls would split and drop to our shoulders. But we don't. We keep our skulls. So.
怎么追女孩He disappeared. This was only last week, and already I don't remember what shattered the enchantment. I think I blinked, I think I retrieved my brain from the weal's and tried to memorize what I was eing, and the weal felt the yank of paration, the careening splash-down into real life and the urgent current of instinct. He vanished under the wild ro. I waited motionless, my mind suddenly full of data and my spirit with pleadings, but he didn't return.
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