June 3, 2010

It rains here. And rains. And rains. Today it felt as if the earth was weeping.

There are four baby owls this year. They watch us when we walk under their tree, tracking our movements in unison. They say "Hseeeet? Hseeet? Hseeeeeeet?" and bob their heads at us. Fuzzy Buddha beans.

The Pileated Woodpecker kid has gotten big enough now that she (I think it's a she) spends much of her time with her head sticking out of the nest hole. Looking at the world she'll fledge into, waiting for her parents to bring more food. More food!

I planted more carrots in the garden, and cilantro and basil. Transplanted lettuces in patterns around the edges of the veg beds. Rescued a worm.

I am in despair over the Gulf of Mexico. I know too much - migration routes, the relationship between the distance over the Gulf and the speed of flight, the thin line between metabolizing fat and metabolizing muscle, the understanding of complete exhaustion, the need for a finish line of healthy marshlands for shelter, for food, for water. There are voices here that I am desperately trying to memorize, knowing that this summer will perhaps be the last time I hear them.

And I am beginning to understand that I have the capacity for a rage that could devolve into madness. So. I plant things in the garden, and walk in the woods, and cheer on the baby Pileated Woodpecker, and bob my head back at the baby owls, and rescue a worm, and am comforted by the rain soaking through my clothing all the way to my skin.

Photo copyright 2010, C. M. Alexander