Thunk!
Branching out 017
A nuthatch flutters down repeatedly to the squished husk of a walnut on our driveway. With each visit, little white flecks—larvae of the walnut husk fly—disappear into the belly of the tiny, busy bird.
It’s a mast year, a time of plenty. The walnuts fall hard and direct, or bounce off a lower branch and leave a swirl of golden leaflets in their wake. In the midst of all that’s unraveling, I feel each thunk as a heartbeat, steady through the season, a reminder of the bounty that remains.
I did not grow up with walnut trees—at least I was not aware of their presence in the same way I knew oaks, and the dogwood and tulip poplar behind our house—but here in Pennsylvania I’ve come to love them: The hillside trees that host birds and beetles and moths. The particularly graceful arches of the one we pass on our way into town. The bouncy leaps of a squirrel with a walnut—bigger than its head!—clutched in its jaws. Their scent, a concentrated mix of green and wild and sunlight, volatile and complex layers that carry wind and life deep into my lungs each time I inhale. The lively brown ink I make from the husks.
I step outside near the trees, watch the flickering wings of a pale green fairy: a praying mantis in flight, perhaps? I don’t see it land, and have no photo, just the residue of an image, diaphanous and glowing in the late afternoon sun.
And still the walnuts fall.
Leaves shatter under my feet like thin shards of ice, except that it’s early October, clear and sunny and so weirdly warm I’m still in shorts and a t-shirt. The leaves are extra crunchy because of the drought.
And still the walnuts fall.
A low, vibrating call lures me outside one night. Great horned owl! It has been years since I’ve heard one here. I sit under the full moon and listen for it to call again, hear the more familiar screech-owls trilling, too.
And still the walnuts fall.
Sometimes I want to crawl into a warm and comforting nook, disappear for a while. A friend says: lie down in nature and just breathe and think about sinking into the ground, remember how small we actually are, that life is finite and precious. *
I have new work coming out! My piece, Unguarded, includes both art and writing and will be published in Dark Mountain, Issue 28: Uncivilised Art. I can’t wait to hold the actual book in my hands!
The online launch will be on Tuesday, 21st October, starting at 7:30pm (BST) and will feature “artists, writers, activists and Earth lovers” from around the world. You can find more information about this free event here.
Special thanks to Caroline Ross and Neale Inglenook for their guidance. You can learn more about the Dark Mountain Project here on Substack, and on the organization’s website.
Parts of Unguarded originated during my Fellowship with Creature Conserve’s Mentorship Program. Many thanks for ongoing support through various stages of this project.
*I have paraphrased the words of Natalie Field here. You can read more about Natalie’s work in her Twig & Ink interview.
The owl image is an Eastern Screech-Owl (Megascops asio)—a value sketch for another painting I made several years ago, but I’ve always liked this one as its own thing. Handmade walnut ink on paper.
All photos by Lisa Kahn Schnell, 2025
Lovely photography and commentary, Lisa!
Carol L.
Beautiful! Both the words and images...
Best Wishes - Dave :)