Kin



Jill Sisson

 
© Copyright 2026 by Jill Sisson



 Photo by Yathin S Krishnappa at Wikimedia Commons.
Photo by Yathin S Krishnappa at Wikimedia Commons.

It’s past noon when I stroll into the oak-pine woodland. The mountain air is warm, the forest duff muffling my footsteps. This is where I’ll sit for a spell.

It’s easy to make myself comfortable on the forgiving ground. I gaze up at a labyrinth of limbs, some green with life, others death-hollowed silver and white, all backed by scraps of cloudless blue. Interrupting my reverie, crisp rustles ripple the air. I quickly spot the source: a pair of buff-brown ground squirrels clambering among the branches. I love the truth of this, two ground dwellers finding their bliss high in a pine, well beyond their subterranean haven of burrows and holes. In wild bursts of energy, they wind around limbs, dissolve into holes and pop out again, their startle reaction at the ready. Minutes slip by, then side-by-side they do some afternoon grooming, little paws scratching like crazy until they slow to a stop.

I want to make friends with the lively pair. At a loss for words, instead I start humming. Picture me, sitting on the duffy ground humming an off-key tune to two nonchalant beings sunning themselves high above. One of them scampers away to boughs unseen; the other one stays. Ears perked, he sits propped on his furry tail, little forepaws tucked close to his heart. My tune meanders, a calming river beneath our gaze. I watch as his taut little body relaxes, his blinks slowing as though bewitched by the mystery-sound floating up from the everyday ground. His eyes narrow to the merest glimmer. Then, to my utter surprise, he nods off and slumps sound asleep in the sun’s slanting rays.

But I don’t stop humming. My song has awakened an ancient chord, melting me out of myself. In harmony with the forest, I sink into our lullaby.

*****

A couple of summers later, I’m rounding a bend on an Idaho trail when I come upon a female grouse standing on a massive downed tree. I slow to a tiptoe-walk so she won’t flush into the nearby brush. Only a couple of yards apart, we study each other; she’s a beauty, her mottled feathers full of summer. Feeling the echo of my ground-squirrel lullaby, I start humming a quiet impromptu tune. The hen cocks her head, absorbing all of me with her dark brown eye. I slip into another song, and we stay transfixed under the high wheeling sky. My humming human voice reaches beyond verses and words and her silence contains us both. I forget where and how and who I am. Unnamed. Unbounded.

Something shifts, maybe a breeze or the Earth herself, and my melody gradually fades. Reluctantly, I resettle my pack, the grouse regarding me with her patient eye, the give and take of a starlit lake. A subtle wave goodbye, and I continue my trudge up the rocky trail, feeling her unwavering gaze. It’s not easy to leave the peak of my day behind.


*****

Striding down an Oregon dirt road, I almost walk past him.

He’s a western pond turtle, a plate-sized marvel, hidden amid shadows and gravel in the middle of my path. All but one foot is tucked under his shell, and I can see he’s in no mood to move. To assure myself he’s not injured, I hunker down and scan his body, head to tail. He appears sturdy and strong, but I worry when I see zipper-tread tire tracks etched in the dust. Hoping my presence will urge him to mosey away, I decide to stay for a while.

Undisturbed, he watches and blinks, his eyes wreathed in gray-brown wrinkles. Dappled light plays on his jigsaw shell while I play with “what ifs”. What if I leave and a truck judders by? What if I linger, and the turtle won’t move? I back away to give him space, and together we wait.

I have no idea how old my reptile friend is — his leathery folds of bumpy skin like ancient gnarly bark, his yellow-spotted head like shiny mosaic art. But I do know his patience surpasses mine; within 20 minutes I return to crouch and grab his shell with cautious hands. Astonished at his heft, I carry him toward the brambly roadside. That is, until he sweeps his powerful legs back and launches himself out of my grasp, swimming in sky. I try to catch him, but we both thud to the ground. A short fall, but a humbling one.

I set him in the shadow of shrubs well off the road, relieved he feels no need to flee. Stretching out in the scraggly grass with my head near his, I realize I’ve never been this close to a turtle before. I let his silence lead mine. Our eyes meet, his right eye fastening onto both of mine, his monk-like smile emanating benevolence. Where does the turtle end and the world begin?

A sparrow suddenly ruptures our silence with a spontaneous song. Startled by the exultant sound, both the turtle and I stir from our repose. To my surprise, he arches his long neck heavenward to drink in the bird’s spilled notes. At first I’m amazed he even notices the music. Then, I realize the cramped boundaries of my beliefs, not only about turtles, but about all the invisibilities surrounding me. Instantly, my limited notions refract and bend like sunlight in rain.

Of course. All our species, all our spaces are bound by strands of sound — through sky, trees, soil, seas. It’s birdsongs, rivertunes, chirps, and lullabies that hold our dear old world together. It’s how all our souls will forever meet one another.

And I know there’s still so much more for me to meet. So much more to learn.


Jill Sisson is a naturalist and educator from Oregon’s Willamette Valley. She has a Masters Degree in Wildlife Biology and recently completed Simon Fraser University’s creative writing program, The Writers Studio. Her nonfiction essays are situated in that sweet spot where the everyday overlaps with the ineffable. She honors the potency of blurred edges, “the places between”, as they are the richest times and places in both human lives and wild landscapes. Western settings—from Colorado to the Pacific Northwest—backdrop most of her written work. She has been published in the anthology, Emerge 24.


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