Riley Bauer
Nature Walks
Nature Walks
There are sounds that we ignore on our average day. They don’t matter to us, or at least they aren’t important enough for us to notice them. That’s what we like to think, at least. It took me quite some time to realize that each noise, whether I chose to hear it or not, was as important as every other noise in the world.
In my high school Nature Writing class, my teacher would take us out to the park every Wednesday. He called these our “nature walks.” At first, I didn’t really get the assignment. We were told to be completely silent. Our phones were to stay in our pockets. Earbuds were to be put away, and we would go to different places in the park and stand there and just listen. It was ironic to me, taking a class where we were told to listen to the sounds of nature while the sounds of heavy machinery and large smokestack-like towers spewed chemicals into the air in the refinery just across the fence from the school. The refinery was in sight the whole time we stood there. The sound almost drowned out the sounds of the birds.
But we could hear the birds. Despite the flames shooting out of the towers in the refinery that blow God-knows-what into the air, I heard them. Robins, mourning doves, and the one or two bluejays that liked to sit on the trees near the concession stand at the softball field. You never realize how many birds you can hear until you are thinking about it. To us they are background noise—why should we care if some birds are talking to each other? It isn’t the chatter of our world, it isn’t the chatter that we care to hear because it doesn’t impact us and therefore it is insignificant.
Until you start to listen. Until you start to watch them. The more you listen, the more you think about those birds. Each Wednesday I would start to watch a new bird. One day it would be a robin, and she would be gathering sticks near the playground for her nest. I watched her weave them in and out, until she was satisfied in the stability of her little nest up high in the tree. Another time it was a mourning bird, who sat on the edge of the concession stand while we stood in the dirt beside it. We all gathered in a circle and listened to her song. The refinery was no longer the noise that we heard, despite the clanging and despite the foul metallic groans. It became insignificant.
I became interested in the life of a bluejay that would follow us to the park and back. When we returned to the classroom, we were to write what we noticed outside, and those who were artistically inclined were to draw something they noticed. I had written that I noticed a bluejay following us to the park. I looked to the window beside my seat, to the tree right outside the window. There it was, sitting on the tree. It tilted its head and stared into the classroom. A chirp, then it flew away.
That was the noise I remembered that night. When I was comfortable in bed the house was silent, when the refinery was burning off material in those smokestacks when nobody was outside to see it despite the fact that everyone could hear it, especially when you lived just four houses down from it, the noise I remembered was that chirp.
Because I knew that it was better to think about a life, no matter how small, instead of the destruction down the street.
Riley Bauer is a 22-year-old student attending Eastern Illinois University and is from Roxana, IL. He is pursuing a master’s degree in Creative Writing with a minor in Premodern Global Studies and a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy. His short story “The Rabbit King” was published in the Spring 2022 edition of The Vehicle. Aside from writing, Riley enjoys martial arts and spending time in nature.
In my high school Nature Writing class, my teacher would take us out to the park every Wednesday. He called these our “nature walks.” At first, I didn’t really get the assignment. We were told to be completely silent. Our phones were to stay in our pockets. Earbuds were to be put away, and we would go to different places in the park and stand there and just listen. It was ironic to me, taking a class where we were told to listen to the sounds of nature while the sounds of heavy machinery and large smokestack-like towers spewed chemicals into the air in the refinery just across the fence from the school. The refinery was in sight the whole time we stood there. The sound almost drowned out the sounds of the birds.
But we could hear the birds. Despite the flames shooting out of the towers in the refinery that blow God-knows-what into the air, I heard them. Robins, mourning doves, and the one or two bluejays that liked to sit on the trees near the concession stand at the softball field. You never realize how many birds you can hear until you are thinking about it. To us they are background noise—why should we care if some birds are talking to each other? It isn’t the chatter of our world, it isn’t the chatter that we care to hear because it doesn’t impact us and therefore it is insignificant.
Until you start to listen. Until you start to watch them. The more you listen, the more you think about those birds. Each Wednesday I would start to watch a new bird. One day it would be a robin, and she would be gathering sticks near the playground for her nest. I watched her weave them in and out, until she was satisfied in the stability of her little nest up high in the tree. Another time it was a mourning bird, who sat on the edge of the concession stand while we stood in the dirt beside it. We all gathered in a circle and listened to her song. The refinery was no longer the noise that we heard, despite the clanging and despite the foul metallic groans. It became insignificant.
I became interested in the life of a bluejay that would follow us to the park and back. When we returned to the classroom, we were to write what we noticed outside, and those who were artistically inclined were to draw something they noticed. I had written that I noticed a bluejay following us to the park. I looked to the window beside my seat, to the tree right outside the window. There it was, sitting on the tree. It tilted its head and stared into the classroom. A chirp, then it flew away.
That was the noise I remembered that night. When I was comfortable in bed the house was silent, when the refinery was burning off material in those smokestacks when nobody was outside to see it despite the fact that everyone could hear it, especially when you lived just four houses down from it, the noise I remembered was that chirp.
Because I knew that it was better to think about a life, no matter how small, instead of the destruction down the street.
Riley Bauer is a 22-year-old student attending Eastern Illinois University and is from Roxana, IL. He is pursuing a master’s degree in Creative Writing with a minor in Premodern Global Studies and a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy. His short story “The Rabbit King” was published in the Spring 2022 edition of The Vehicle. Aside from writing, Riley enjoys martial arts and spending time in nature.