Early this morning, before the eastern horizon was painted
with first light, a motion-triggered thermal camera at the edge of our backyard
pollinator meadow captured a quiet yet powerful scene. On the near side of
the rewilded fence row—a bobcat, low to the ground, moving with deliberate
grace. Just beyond the fence, in the managed grassland of the adjoining 80-acre
hayfield, stood a white-tailed deer, still and alert, separated only by a thin
ribbon of habitat we’ve been restoring over the past year.
These two animals—so
different in form and behavior—met in the same moment, drawn by the very
landscape we’ve been working to reimagine.
The fence row, once trimmed and
tamed, is now being allowed to revert to a more natural state. Tall native
grasses, goldenrod, elderberry, and saplings are slowly reclaiming space. A
buffer strip, yes—but also a lifeline. A corridor. A crossroads.
When we began rewilding this strip of land, we did it
with pollinators in mind—bees, butterflies, moths. But nature doesn’t operate
in isolation. What benefits the insects also benefits the birds. What benefits
do the birds draw from the small mammals? And what draws the mice and
rabbits will eventually attract the quiet-footed predators, such as the bobcat.
The image was brief. But it tells
a story of ecological restoration already at work. It reminds us that even
small patches of rewilded habitat can have outsized importance—serving as
shelter, transit routes, or feeding grounds for wildlife we might never see
with our own eyes.
This isn’t just about one bobcat
or one deer. It’s about creating opportunities—for life to find its way back,
and for us to witness, just now and then, what that return looks like.
I’ll be saving this image for the
records, but more than that, I’m holding onto the message it carries: rewilding
works. Even in the quiet corners of our backyards.
—Ron Dodson
Dodson’s Bird Observatory
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