And all that is now
And all that is gone
And all that’s to come
And everything under the sun is in tune
But the sun is eclipsed by the moon
– Roger Waters (Pink Floyd)
“The world looks so hazy,” Zev says. He stands beside me, his head engulfed inside a cardboard “eclipse box” Amber fashioned for us to view the upcoming solar phenomenon in.
We are sitting on the porch under what would normally be full sunshine. It is a little after one o’clock in the afternoon, but it looks and feels like that incomparable hour before dusk.
The butterflies seem to be enjoying the day, in spite of the temporary muting of their beloved sunshine. We see clouded sulphurs, pipevine swallowtails and a Queen in the yard, and once a hurried Gulf frittilary flashes by on silver and orange wings.
Butterflies aren’t the only creatures that are out enjoying this mercy from the normally raging summer sun. A pair of scissortail flycatchers are using my barbed wire fence as a vantage point, where the butterflies’ presence is duly noted as well, with hungrier pairs of eyes. As I watch, one sees its window of opportunity closing like the very shadow over the sun above and makes a feathery dive in the direction of a passing variegated fritillary. They wing away behind my truck, out of view, with the bird in hot pursuit. Nearby on the porch, a pair of hummingbirds hang suspended in the dusky blue sky that has suddenly taken on a psychedelically peach tone.
As I witness this perfectly anomalous miracle of nature unfold for the first time in nearly a century through its projected image via a pinhole lens poked through foil, I am reminded that my family and I are getting the chance to experience something few living people on this earth have ever seen before. That, and Zev is nuts about space and everything it relates to and so things like meteor showers and eclipses are celebrated with the same anticipation and enthusiasm as New Year’s Eve around our house. “Eclipse” is all my wife and I have heard for a week. We tried to use a welding helmet’s tinted glass as a viewing mechanism but the shade was not dark enough and I subjected my poor eyes to the dreaded Eclipse Blindness for a split second before deeming them unsafe. At that point my wife looked over as if questioning herself why she married a human guinea pig and set about to making the box, which worked wonderfully.
Zev declares August 21 an annual Eclipse Holiday from here on out, whether an eclipse is expected or not.
But then my thoughts darken, as a man’s can in this day and age, to more dire things. “The End of the World!” is what I’m sure plenty of people said during the 1918 eclipse, and their words soon passed into the endless well of obscurity in the span of mere hours. But will ours? I think about places such as the Santa Ana Wildlife Refuge and the National Butterfly Center, soon to be forced to eke out their future existence in the shadow of a concrete wall lit by floodlights. I think back to the spring of 2016, where Mark Pyle and I took Zev on his first trip to the Sabal Palm Sanctuary, a 557 acre preserve located on the Rio Grande roughly between Brownsville, Texas and Matamoros, Mexico. On that trip, the rich earthy smell of a wide diversity of chiefly Mexican subtropical flora that thrived in the organic detritus composed of layers of fallen palm fronds in various stages of decomposition pervaded our nostrils. A red-bordered pixie butterfly had fluttered between us, and had done its odd vanishing trick that involves the very unbutterfly-like behavior of hiding beneath a leaf with its wings stretched flat. Not one but two of the rare turquoise-spotted speckled racers (the objective of the day’s search) had blessed our trail before the walk had ended. It had been a day to remember, and as the sun now hung eclipsed in the sky overhead, I wondered if the beloved sanctuary would be one of the next things to be eclipsed by that all-consuming machine of what passes for “progress.” It made me think of that vulnerable little strip of subtropical habitat that only occurs in the United States on the border of two Texas counties, of all the species that only occur north of the border in that specific niche, and of the dozers that loom in the razed strip of construction even now. I think of all this as I stare through that tiny pinhole again, where two heavenly bodies aligned in the sky have now begun to slowly part company above and behind me. I think of things we only get the opportunity to experience once in a lifetime. Of everyday wonders within a thousand worlds that go on all around us. And also of things we may never have the opportunity to see and enjoy again if we don’t act now.
The sun is returning now, breaking the spell of the eclipse across the land, as bright as mid-day in August. In another few hours the world will return to life as normal. Most will have forgotten the whole thing by this time tomorrow. Will our wild places suffer the same fate some day? Will the sound of the bittern or the sight of a bobcat or a grey fox or a kingsnake become bedtime stories our children and grandchildren will tell theirs, as foreign a fantasy to them as the tales of dragons and knights? They will if we don’t teach them. If we don’t show them and share with them. If we don’t relay and emphasize the importance of preserving them.
Zev takes the “eclipse box” from me and dons it like an imaginary astronaut’s helmet. He views what little is left to view through a cardboard-thin layer of protection. Beside him, I look out across the post oaks and prairie grasses and can’t help but feel that I am doing the same.