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

May 28, 2010

I walk in the woods every day. Sometimes in May and June I see fledgling Barred owls. Often in May and June I don't see fledgling Barred owls, but I suspect that they see me.



Photo copyright 2010, C. M. Alexander

May 15, 2010

Things seen on the forest paths this week:

A robin's wing.
Darkling beetles.
Faded dogwood blossoms.
A centipede with black and yellow racing stripes
One owl pellet, warmly fresh, containing the bones of Peromyscus maniculatus , Sorex trowbridgii, and feathers. It had no smell.

Michelle called to report Barred owlets, but I have walked in the forest every day since and neither seen nor heard their presence.

April 20, 2010

Leaving the forest today the sky was filled with Vaux Swifts. Their voices sound like their wingbeats look - a chittering across the sky.

April 12, 2010

A fragment of robin's egg, the interior marked with the erstwhile inhabitant's effort at escape.

Egg tooth: tooth or toothlike structure used by the young of many egg-laying species to break the shell of the egg and so escape from it at hatching. - Encyclopedia Britannica

Photo copyright 2010, C. M. Alexander

April 9, 2010

We were late to the forest today, arriving at the place where afternoon and evening meld in slanting light. We followed the crowtalk, up past the windfalls and north, back down the spine trail. Past the hemlock snags and the Barred Owl nest tree. Crow voices nattering back and forth on each side of us, then coalescing just out of sight amongst the trees. We cut back into the forest on a side path, one of the unofficial trails. Walked quickly, wanting to see what the crows had found.

This path bends through a bower of osoberry and masses of evergreen huckleberry. Bill can trot through unencumbered, but I instinctively protect my face as I push away the branches, turn my head to look down and to the side. And see this year's Trillium blossoms at my feet, just past ripe, glowing pink in slanted light.

Now. Nothing matters but this light- not politics, not the silly misunderstandings left at work, not the unanswered emails and the uneasy family relationships. Not the unchanged oil in the car, the laundry waiting to be brought in, the odd smell in the refrigerator, the incipient threat of bindweed pushing up to strangle the garden.

There is enough time for one picture and the light is gone. Bill whines. I hear the crows again. An owl retreats overhead.

Photo copyright 2010, C. M. Alexander

April 7, 2010

Windy. Three big trees down in the forest. We bushwacked through the detritus, the air around us redolent with rising sap.