Winter Bird Garden

December 12, 2016

It has snowed for at least three days in a row.  Lovely, pure, white snow dressing up the trees and illuminating what was dull and gray before.  

The birds come to our feeders in happy, brisk, little flights.  Some come solo, others arrive in tiny flocks that seem to take turns.  Seeing them makes me realize how much my eyes have already missed seeing colors beyond gray and brown.  

I see them now as my flower garden of winter.  Even those birds with colors that blend into the background belong in this garden and delight my eyes.  Of course, it is the cardinals and blue jays who provide the brightest colors, who seem to know and enjoy their status. Through my window I can scarcely keep up with the brilliant red male cardinals and the equally beautiful, reddish-brown and cream females.  In the space of a breath, I count 7 males around and in the feeder, and as I check my count, they move again, rearranging, coming and going in short, flirty flights.  Where there were 7, there are 4, then 8, then 2, and it is dizzying trying to be sure of their numbers.  For a moment, there are equal numbers of males and females, and just as quickly, they scatter back to the trees or hop out of sight into the reddish and leafless dappled willow nearby.

Both cardinals fluff their feathers, their wind-driven mohawks blowing this way and that, changing their expressions from noble to condescending toward those non-red birds around them.  Sometimes, though I don't believe they know it, those magnificent crests blow sideways, creating an absurd, juvenile delinquent appearance.  Yet I imagine they are the roses of the winter garden, flaunting themselves as they feed, knowingly brilliant against the new, white snow.  

The junco, with his black and white pattern, enjoys the seeds that drop into the snow beneath the feeder.  He is unlike any flower that comes to mind, but he is part of the winter garden, nonetheless, his bright eyes and tilting head seem to communicate a friendliness similar to that of the chickadee.

And, in all seasons, chickadees abound, zipping about and calling happily to each other and anyone who is out and about on this snowy day.  With their black caps and white stripes, they settle on perches from top to bottom of the tube feeder, blooming up and down the stem of the swaying column.

Interspersed with the chickadees, the finches are the very thistles they partake of in late summer and fall.  The purple-red of their heads and breasts vary from bird to bird, but they arrive in abundance, chattering their finch-speak at each other and themselves.  Briskly they rearrange themselves over and over, tiny feet like curling vines, cling to each perch. 

Among these are deceptively drab finches, only the slightest hint of the sundrop yellow they will become when spring arrives again.  Smudges of dark, stony mustard are the clue I must look for to know who they are.  Every winter they are incognito, making me wonder year after year why the cardinal does not also go undercover?  The goldfinches draw no attention to themselves, like the small, muted flowers of moonbeam coriopsis, but so much dimmer.  Their golden lights are hushed and muffled, but I know who they really are. Inside, their hearts are small suns, waiting to join the spring celebration when the earth has tilted and turned to face our own life-giving sun again.

Tufted titmouse and the nuthatches both hop vertically, tails pointing up and beaks down, defying gravity, behaving as if they are on a strict timeline and might be called away any second now.  The tufted titmouse has its, "tuft," or crest upright, alert for changes in the wind.

The red-bellied woodpecker has just arrived at the suet feeder.  He wears his handsome, black and white chevron cape and his bright, orange hat, set at a jaunty angle on the back of his head.  He is more of a rarity, like the midsummer tiger lilies that I prize, for I have so few. 

Replacing the red-bellied are the smaller downy and hairy woodpeckers.  They are the sweetest little birds with their fluffy markings in black, white, and tiny orange or red patches.  They attend both the suet and the seed feeders, seeming to be tentative little flowers, uncertain of their place in the seemingly random schedule of bird-blooms.

Aggressively beautiful, the blue-jays sweep in and everybody else disappears.  Their brilliant blue, patterned with white and black, is a welcome sight for color-starved eyes. They are large and showy flowers of winter, confidently stealing center stage from the others.

They are a moving garden, to be sure, but they bloom with no effort on my part, save for adding the seed, and they change constantly.  I have no gardening tools, nor a part to play in which will bloom or when.  I can enjoy the entire garden from the comfort and warmth of my home, and though I have no, "green space," I have an active and ever-changing garden scene inside my own, personal snow globe.

T.

Gradual Spring

Early spring walks are treasure hunts for me.  I am always scanning, inspecting, bending down to look more closely.  I "collect" my findings in my mind, celebrating each one, or mourning, if mourning is called for.
Every treasure finds some way to stand out in the leafless woods of oak and pine.  Last week it was a bright, ribbon snake, too fast for me to catch.  Yesterday our first encounter was a sad one.  A lone deer, dead beside the swamp, too close to my Watching Log for comfort.  I made the assumption that the poor thing died tragically of the chronic wasting disease, thirsty and unable to cool its fever.  I only glanced, and quickly turned away with the dogs in tow.
Further, also beside the swamp, a beautifully painted turtle, edged with red, but upside down, unable to flip back, had died that way.  It was a perfect shell to show my students, but not with the turtle remains still inside.  I will wait.
As we followed the trail, the small shrubs began to show tiny leaf openings.  Looking up, dizzy with the height of the trees, we could see the beginnings of tree top buds.  Most of the woods is still sleeping, but along the ridge, the round-lobed hepatica pushed aside the dead, brown, oak leaves, and turned its pretty little purple faces to the sky.  Here, I bent close to smile into the only flowers blooming in that woods.  The first and the bravest.  They smiled back.
T.

Spring Peepers

What time do the peepers go to sleep?

When I woke before light,

they were settling down for the night.

and I wondered

did they say everything that they needed to say?

did the correct messages arrive

at their intended recipients?

and how,

if they sleep all day,

do they have so much more to say

the next night?

Are they

a congress of frogs,

all talking at once,

never listening to each other?

Is it a chorus,

all singing their parts,

and each part is the same?

Are they trying to tell us

to get off of their planet

and stop polluting the air

that they breathe through their skins?

To stop poisoning our yards

with run off into their watery homes?

Their voices reassure me

every spring,

but I never know

what they are saying.

 T.

Are you CRAZY? Or, a Walk on a Blustery Day

April 11, 2013

Today’s walk was not encouraged by the weather.  Wild, unpredictable wind blew the intermittent rain sideways.  I dressed for it, and was quite warm in my waterproof down coat, ear-band, hat, and hood.  Only my cheeks were cold.

The dogs drew me along, wet ears tucked tightly when the wind blew the hardest, but I could tell they were enjoying their outing.  Noses were busy, eyes scanning brightly for any movement. 

To my surprise, despite the rain and wind, the birds continued their spring chatter and calls.  The redwings, particularly, and the little finches kept up the little joyful sounds of spring beneath a grey and glowering sky.

For the brief time in the woods, there was so little color at first glance.  Because I am anxiously awaiting Green, I had to make an effort to notice the colors of a rainy, non-seasoned day.  The berry brambles, while leafless still, are a warm and deep red, almost purple.  A few have braved some tiny, green buds here and there.  The one and only hepatica plant I have ever seen in this woods is preparing its leaves, though I see no sign of the little purple flower yet.  But it is early.

Among the trees, there are two species still holding leaves.  The small oaks respond listlessly to the gusts of wind, with last year’s leaves limply the color of wet beach sand.  Sprinkled throughout the oak woods are the doomed beech saplings, their pale, paper-cream leaves still graceful and unaware of their certain future as the beech disease will surely come for them one day soon.

Just at the edge of the woods and swamp, I was delighted to see the pileated woodpecker with its large, bright, red head and enormous beak poking suspiciously at me from around a nearby tree trunk.  It treated me to two short flights before disappearing into the wet woods.  It was my first smile of the walk.

As we left the scant protection of the trees, my eye was caught by two soaring turkey vultures.  They wind-surfed the sky, dipping and gliding on the constant waves of air.  I envied their oblivion to the weather.  I doubt a sunny day affects their mood as it does mine, at least, from what I can remember of the last, long ago sunny day.  The turkey vultures are just as happy circling the skies on their wide wings, warm inside their feathers.  It makes no difference to them.

But aside from those few, the rest of the world had bundled up inside their nests.  Not even the squirrels poked their saucy little noses out to taunt my dogs today.  They were nowhere to be seen.  Nor did the rabbits dart from their usual hiding places, causing the dogs to lunge as one with me helplessly dragged in tow.

I can’t say that I would have chosen that walk today, if it were not for the dogs.  They need it, and I know that I need it.  My ghost dog came along, as always, dancing along before me, jumping into the flooded lands, sniffing about, but always tethered to me by love and friendship, never needing a leash, then, or now.

Another day, the skies are sure to lighten and the Green will come.  It will be easy to take myself outside.  Color will be everywhere, and there will be no need for so many layers.  I won’t have to strive to see the beauty as I did on this dismal and silent day.  The wind won’t be rushing about and the sky will be blue. 

But, I won’t have the world to myself.

T.

In the Night

She is no ghost

who follows close

who leads me on my path

In depth of night

I sense her light

more than a memory cast.

No trick is this,

nor mind amiss

I reach to touch her fur.

So close and here

just yesterday

a running, happy blur.

On path of woods

is where she stood

and still waits eyes aglow.

and still I see her

everywhere

she does not want to go.

My hands can’t reach

across this breach

but my heart can clearly see,

that gorgeous girl

my favorite friend

a vivid memory.

T.

A Day

A Day

As small, contained, and square

as a single pill-minder box.

A striped cat

who showed up on a Monday,

And stayed.

A marathon of movies,

or a long sleep.

A road trip.

A day

is shopping every store

but coming home

the same as you were before.

The length of time a clock hand moves

A calendar rectangle

filled with to-dos.

Something that begins and ends,

A first,

A last,

A time with friends.

A regret,

Or triumph,

A day is yet,

something to examine

A time to forget.

Bright skies,

or endless rain,

A lesson plan,

An hour gained.

Looking forward,

Looking back,

for what you hoped,

and what it lacked.

A day is spent

or given free,

an endless meeting,

a climbing tree.

A lazy float

down a river long,

A day is here,

and then it’s gone.

A day is now, plus now, plus now,

and we never know just how

a day can fly,

a day can drag

a day might be all

some ever had.

T.

Feeding My Spirit

March 10, 2013

4.6 mile run with the dogs

50 degrees, wet, slushy.

I took the driveway out to the road.  The driveway is very muddy.  I skipped and hopped between relatively dry places.  The dogs tried avoiding the puddles too.  The first mile felt easy and good to my body.  Later my spirit improved when I saw my first robin of spring.  When it first flew in front of me, the distance made it difficult to see what it was, but it had that distinctive, darting, flirting sort of flight that I associate with robins.  It let me get close enough to confirm its rusty breast and yellow beak.  Are there bugs available for it yet?  The rain had stopped but small trees hung with water droplets, and, for a moment, they looked like mini holiday lights all dripping from the branches.  I had to make a pitstop, and to do so, ran past the Watching Log.  It is breaking down so quickly now.  It holds memories of Tansy times.  The memories aren’t breaking down like the log though.  I wonder if the log will be still solid enough for my Woods and Wetlands class to sit on this summer. 

Chickadees sang me around the big lake.  They are so insistent, and their voices are varied.  I realize I can never come close to truly making their sounds.  What am I lacking in my mouth to make such sounds?  What is in their beaks or throats that allows them? I heard the crows too.  They made me think of the owl book author.

I was so thirsty, and with melting snow and puddles everywhere, my thirst was intensified.  The lake was a melting, shining mirror with ice still visible here and there.  When I saw the sap buckets hanging from the maple tree taps, I had a taste memory from childhood.  Nothing ever tasted better than the sap in that cold bucket.  I confess, I took off my bright vest and snuck into that private woods with the dogs to try for a palm-full of that sweet water.  All I was able to do with the lids firmly on, was reach in and dip my fingertips, but I licked my fingers like a child, and the taste memory was confirmed.  I wished I had a long straw to drink it.  I was never allowed much of it, in my memory of childhood, because it all had to go to make syrup.  How much sap can a maple tree lose?  Does it hurt the tree?  Do they have to alternate trees yearly?  I never thought to ask.  I don’t even know how to tap a tree.

Coming around the little lake, I had a sudden scent in my nose that I could not identify, but it was not of humans.  It wasn’t quite the smell of spring, but maybe the smell of warm and melting.  It was a sweet smell, and very faint.  I felt as if it came from the lake, but I am not sure.  It didn’t remain, or my nose adjusted to it.

Yesterday we had a bluebird perched in the shrub outside our window.  What are they eating?  I have seen several of them since January, and I can’t think how they are living here.  This one sat so close to the window for so long, I could clearly see and enjoy its blue-ness.  The color of its breast is not unlike a robin’s.

On Friday I saw a woolly bear caterpillar, all black, making its slow way across the lake road. It was quite large.  I do not know what it is doing out, but maybe the robin or blue bird can eat it.

I spent too much time indoors all week.  I did not feed this part of my spirit that was starving and thirsty.  May I remember to do so regularly.

March 11, 2013

The owl author talked about helping kids narrow their focus for journaling by using a paper frame or picking one sense or one element to write about.  Yesterday’s journaling was not the kind I usually do.  I will experiment now with writing it the way I usually do and see how it differs.

Heading out with spirit cramped and my mind constrained.  As soon as my shoes hit the mud and the smells of melting and trills of chickadees entered my senses, I could feel my petals unfurling in relief.  My body settled into the run, feet sending signals of life to every cell of my body.  Wake up!  It’s time to Breathe and Be.  My nose, conflicted for days with artificial scents, opened to a sweet, light smell of sap and moss and melting lake water.  Now feet on wet clay, and all of my internal antennae tuned to trees, water, birds, snow… the world that I belong to; I missed it.  The magnolia buds beckon my thoughts toward a coming spring, and my excitement to encounter my first robin rivaled and surpassed any knowledge gained in the last week in the world of friends, teaching, books, and learning.  There he was, yellow beak and distinctive flirtatious dance, and he was all mine just then, looking at each other in recognition.  My thirst for this absorption joined my literal thirst, and the buckets of cold maple sap caught my eye, reminding me of childhood.  I considered, then camouflaging myself, sinking into the melting wetness of the woods, reaching, straining a bit, hand into bucket and fingers dipped into cold sap water.  I know I should not be here, should not interfere in what is not mine, but licking my fingers, I am a child again beneath our maple trees, and the taste is the purest, faintly sweet and cold.  It is worth the transgression.  Soon I will hear the spring peepers welcoming the trilling red-wings in the swamps, and, like all springs, will loosen what is tight in me, will allow flow of words like sap to drip onto the page as I try to bring it all with me wherever I go.