Sky Watching
For weeks I’ve endured the same question about the upcoming solar eclipse on Monday, April 8th. Where am I going to go to watch it?
What has come to be called The Great North American Eclipse is now a major destination event for cities, towns, parks, and resorts in the path of totality in thirteen states, including Pennsylvania, although only in the northwest corner. I’ve listened to customers and fellow vendors discuss travel plans centered around this celestial event, opting for vacationesque jaunts to far off sites such as Mexico, Texas, and northern Maine in order to catch a glimpse of the moon passing between the Earth and the Sun for six whole minutes.
Not being one for planning major travel around an event that could be cancelled by cloudy weather or rain, I’m opting to stay home and settle for 93% instead of totality. But more fun than looking up through my dad’s old welding goggles at the sky is watching the reactions of all the animals here on the ground.
As a farmer, my life, as well as that of the livestock, revolves around routines that are most often dictated by a circadian rhythm. Trust me, they don’t recognize the time changes around Daylight Saving Time and let me know it in no uncertain terms. The too-free-ranging chickens will literally peck on my doors and windows if I’m not out by their regular feeding time or they’ll look at me like I’m an idiot when I’m out feeding everyone an hour earlier than usual even though they’re happy anytime someone rattles the lid to the food hopper.
But by far the most entertaining solar eclipse was the last one on August 21, 2017. It was the middle of grazing season when all the animals were at the farthest pastures on the farm, the ones at the bottom of the hill that had lots of shade and a refreshing seasonal stream meandering through the verdant meadow. As much as the animals enjoy this spot during the day, their routine was to return to the safety near the barn in the bedded overhang where there were stock tanks full of water and treats as dusk arrived. The bottomland is where wildlife are active at night, especially coyotes, bears, and bobcats so the stock stick close to the comfort of the spotlights that automatically come on at night.
When the moon began passing in front of the sun and daylight dimmed the critters ambled back up the hill as they do every evening when the automatic lights came on. The laying hens vacated their pasture and roosted as if ready for nightfall. While outside watching the event and using a colander to make crescent shaped shadows on the sidewalk I noticed all the animals’ odd behavior.
Walking down to the barn to investigate, everyone was there expecting their nightly toss of alfalfa pellets, but it was the middle of the afternoon—too early. In unison, they looked at their empty feed bunks. They looked at me. They raised their heads and looked to the sky as the daylight grew brighter. They looked at me again and as if to shrug their shoulders, and once again ambled down the hill to continue grazing. The chickens were equally perplexed, cautiously poking their heads out the coop doors and also quizzically looking at me as if to ask if this was some sort of a joke.
Only when the moon had completely passed by the sun did they dare venture back out into the grass. If it’s one thing chickens don’t like, it’s shadows. Hawks cast shadows.
Scientists have studied the behaviors of wildlife during eclipses, such as nocturnal animals emerging, lightning bugs flashing, and cockroaches swarming, but I think it’s much more fun as a farmer to see how the animals I so intimately know on a daily basis react to the sun disappearing for a few minutes in the middle of the day.
It’s too early in the season for the stock to be down on the bottomland pasture for the eclipse so I may only get dirty looks from the laying hens this time. For me, it’s worth watching just as much as the celestial event.