animal signs

prompts + practices//work in process.

donkey camp, san juan river, Utah

The other morning we were awakened before sunrise by braying donkeys. Hee HAW Hee HAW, they hollered, their voices raspy and out of tune. A minute later the wild turkeys chimed in, clucking and gobbling at a high, screechy volume. 

I pulled my winter hat over my eyes, burrowed deeper into our sleeping bag, and went back to sleep. 

We were on our annual Easter rafting trip down the San Juan River, three days from Bluff, Utah, to Mexican Hat. It had snowed on the drive to Utah, but along the banks of the San Juan, spring was popping.  

We’d seen baby burros, calves, downy goslings, great blue herons, and juvenile bighorn sheep. A flock of cormorants buzzed us in a tight V formation; their wings beating in unison sounded like a jet engine or a drone. The donkeys had come to drink at the water’s edge at dusk as we cooked dinner and built a campfire. They were soon joined by a gaggle of turkeys rustling in the willows, their bright wattles flashing through the brush like red bandanas. 

In many cultures, animals sightings are totems, symbols. A couple of weeks ago I heard the author Brooke Williams read from his marvelous new book, Dragonfly. Williams, who lives in Utah, became transfixed by the delicate skimmers and followed them everywhere, studying their life cycle and habits. Being attentive to animals and the natural world, he explained, is an expression of “radical intimacy.”