. . . the accomplishments of trees

A Final Affection

I love the accomplishments of trees,
How they try to restrain great storms
And pacify the very worms that eat them.
Even their deaths seem to be considered.
I fear for trees, loving them so much.
I am nervous about each scar on bark,
Each leaf that browns. I want to
Lie in their crotches and sigh,
Whisper of sun and rains to come.

Sometimes on summer evenings I step
Out of my house to look at trees
Propping darkness up to the silence.

When I die I want to slant up
Through those trunks so slowly
I will see each rib of bark, each whorl;
Up through the canopy, the subtle veins
And lobes touching me with final affection;
Then to hover above and look down
One last time on the rich upliftings,
The circle that loves the sun and moon,
To see at last what held the darkness up.

“A Final Affection” by Paul Zimmer

I love this poem by Paul Zimmer. I first read it on Writer’s Almanac in May and kept it in abeyance for the right images. A bonus is a Baltimore Oriole. Click on the picture below to see him aloft and singing to his love.

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Sightings, songbirds, and piles

I have been hearing him for a month now; his song a calling card, elusive, warbling high atop the sycamores.

Since our arrival on the Cutoff, I’ve grown familiar with his song, especially when he first arrives, before other songbirds appear. I know to look up to the tops of the ancient trees shading our deck, but, the orioles are hard to find. They are smaller than robins, stay closer to the tree canopies, and camouflage remarkably well considering their color.

Lately, I have heard more than one. The beau, it seems, has found his lady.

On Monday, we saw both. They were flitting above, fussing, in turn on a branch, high above the barn, building a nest, we supposed.

Have  you ever seen a Baltimore Oriole? They are brilliant of color; he more vibrant orange than she, as is the nature of birds. Orioles build the most intricate of nests, resembling a sock or purse, impossible to find with the naked eye. We found one, once. Rather, it found us, after a windstorm, resting on the chaise lounge on the deck, it’s handles were gone but its cavity intact. Too damaged to mend, too precious to throw away, it nestles, each year, in our Christmas tree.

I had tossed some very ripe plums onto the unkempt hill we call our compost pile. Mostly leaves and flower clippings, coffee grounds and kitchen scraps find their way to the pile. Over time, we’ve harvested rich, organic matter from this pile that is enriching our soil here on the Cutoff. I was headed to the compost, my arms full of faded peonies, when I saw something dart out of the mound. Orange. A few days later, there were lemon rinds – and another flash of orange. Tom, too, had seen flashes of orange coming from the pile, which is near another mesh of twigs and the long stringy leaves of grasses; a virtual building supply store for the birds and creatures who occupy the Cutoff.

I want to talk to you about such piles of building material, but, will save that for another day. For now, I’ll leave you with a link about Baltimore Orioles, should you care to learn more or to listen to their songs, with a link here and I’ll ask you a question as well.

Do you have any songbirds near you?

The image is from the National Geographic site I’ve linked to, and, yes, I have used it before.

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Bee-ing a BeeSpotter

I’ve mentioned Jane and Pat before. They are at times referred to as our butterfly ladies for all their efforts in saving and tracking the beautiful monarchs and all the butterfly gardens they have certified. They have gently pushed our members to plant native species, prodded us to compost, and encouraged us to recycle those used coffee grounds into our soil. They walk the talk, leading by their examples in how they live and how they garden – and they are always a source of knowledge and inspiration for me.

I had just finished reading our club’s monthly newsletter. Inside its pages was a message from Jane and Pat telling us about a program initiated at the University of Illinois engaging citizen scientists (that would be you and me) in the gathering of information about honeybees and bumblebees. (For this posting, I will refer to both as bees)

As many of you are aware, the bee population is in rather precarious state right now. Hives are suddenly being abandoned and bee populations  have been diminishing at increasingly alarming numbers, a phenomenon known as colony collapse disorder, where all of the worker bees suddenly disappear. Gone. gone.

While this may seem like a problem only beekeepers face, it is, in reality, a problem for all of us. Hives being threatened threatens our food supply. Without these colonies of pollinators, mainly the workers bees, our vegetable crops and fruit trees are at grave risk of  being destroyed.

Scientists have been attune to this and are actively seeking answers, but, they can’t do it alone. That’s where we come in; citizen scientists with the simple task of monitoring bees. All it involves is a camera, the internet, and a little initiative to become a BeeSpotter.

If you’ve been visiting the Cutoff for even a few posts, you know that I tote my camera around most places I go, especially if I’m out in nature. The day that I captured this lone bee in the pictures,  I was merely taking one of my daily walks around the garden.

There I was, filled with glee as I spotted the first of the tree peonies opening, and there, in the very first blossom, was a very busy bee who was actively collecting pollen. He was so busy that didn’t pay me any mind, affording me the opportunity to get quite a few pictures, which I promptly downloaded and buzzed with delight when I saw I had quite a few good, clear shots.

The BeeSpotter link noted in the newsletter was quickly opened, a few clicks of the keyboard and I was logged in. Within five minutes I became a BeeSpotter by simply providing a few pictures, some basic information about where I saw the bee, time of day, date, and a click to send it. A few days later, I received an email from an expert BeeSpotter, identifying my bee, which is a Bombus impatiens (common eastern bumble bee).

BeeSpotting data is currently being collected  only in Illinois. If you are an Illinois resident, or passing through Illinois, I encourage you to visit the website and consider sending in a few photos of the bees you see. If you are not an Illinois resident, I encourage you to visit the site, see what it is all about, and be aware of the bees in your area. Similar programs may soon be in your area. To all of you, I encourage you to look at other ways you can be a citizen scientist, like keeping a gardening or birding journal, keeping  a photo journal of what you are seeing, or writing down simple observations of what is going on in nature around you.

Oh, if I’m not posting, I’m likely out Bee-ing a BeeSpotter!

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Starved Rock With a Pinch of Gumbo

Illinois. It is both complicated and simple with its windy city of Chicago that Carl Sandburg immortalized in his City of Big Shoulders, nestled at the shores of Lake Michigan, one of the Great Lakes carved out of ice eons ago. It has some of the richest soil on earth that produces corn and soy beans and pumpkins. The historic town of Galena sits in the northwestern corner of the state with modern day ski lifts and once rich deposits of lead. while the Shawnee National Forest, on the state’s its southern tip, was once populated by native North Americans and remains resplendent in its natural beauty. Illinois is like a family; complicated, conflicting, often argumentative, always proud of where it has been, what it has accomplished, and where it is headed.

The Land of Lincoln. The Prairie State. Illinois is rich in resources, both natural and human, and much of its terrain was carved from the great glaciers that cut into it long before man settled on it.

We love exploring it – and so we did this weekend as we marked our anniversary. 

Tom and I met in college toward the center of the state. Even though both of us were raised in the suburbs of Chicago; he a south suburban lad, myself a gal from the west side, we had never been to Starved Rock State Park together. Tom remembers, as a very young boy, sitting on the top of a rock, Starved Rock,  looking out across the tree tops. So, we deemed Starved Rock as our destination, booked a room at the Lodge, and headed out on the road to discovery.

Starved Rock is only about ninety minutes from our house, mostly interstate driving. We arrived on Sunday just in time to have lunch at the Lodge, check in, then wander about the park. This is the scenery from the restaurant where we ate lunch.

This lush, forested park has eighteen canyons surrounded by rock formations born out of glacial melt thousands of years ago. The canyons provide a majestic gift to the flat fields of this part of Illinois. especially when the spring rains give rise to their waterfalls. Starved Rock State Park has become the wintering over locale for eagles, drawing visitors to the park even in winter.

Throughout Starved Rock are statues; old trees repurposed as eagles and bears, settlers and dogs, and all manner of creatures carved out of wood. I am always appreciative when I see new life coming from old life.

We decided to take one of the closer and less strenuous paths, though even the path we chose through French Canyon involved plenty of climbing up and down stairs, looking down into the magnificent canyon, with the forest floor coming alive in native columbine, shooting star, bloodroot, native violet, and ferns. It is amazing how life will cling to the walls of a canyon and how trees seem to arise out of them, determined to live and grow.

Can you find our shadows looking down into the canyon? You may have to click onto the picture a time or two, but, there we are, tiny shadows in the great, big forest.

Jennifer and Jason recommended a Cajun restaurant for us to try. Yes. A Cajun restaurant. After all that climbing, we needed some nourishment, so, off we went to Ron’s Cajun Connection, not much more than a road stop diner on a country road in a town called Utica. It was loud, busy, and full of welcome mat hospitality. We devoured our gumbo; the best one will find in this neck of the cornfields. Yum. Good means are always a part of travel, don’t you agree?

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It’s easy being green …

The view outside our windows is an emerald sea these days, from our worn out lawn wearing a freshened suit of moss, to the emerging leaves on trees and bushes. The ferns are unfurling, the lily of the valley showing tiny buds, and the roses are promising blooms sometime soon. I feel a bit like Kermit the Frog, only with a positive spin on the words to the song that helped to make him famous, as I sing out “it is easy being green”.

On a recent walk around Lake Katherine, one of Kermit’s relatives was splashing in the mud,

and a pair of Mallards became mighty friendly as they waddled over to where Tom and I were bench sitting, begging for a handout. Mrs. Mallard came a-quacking right over to our knees. As tempting as it is, I do not bring morsels of bread to feed geese and ducks as it is not good for them to take food from strangers now, is it?

Well, I have a bit of list a mile long today, so, I’d best get off of this log I’ve been sitting upon, and get out and about with the day before me, which includes finishing up “Mrs. Queen Takes the Train”, composing the minutes from a meeting I’m charged to do, give the basil sitting on the countertop a home in a pot on the deck, and maybe sit for a spell in the arbor and count my blessings.

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May

 by Mary Oliver, from American Primitive

 May, and among the miles of leafing,

blossoms storm out of the darkness -

windflowers and moccasin flowers. The bees

dive into them and I too, to gather

their spiritual honey. Mute and meek, yet theirs

is the deepest certainty that this existence too -

this sense of well-being, the flourishing

of the physical body – rides

near the hub of the miracle that everything

is a part of, is as good

as a poem or a prayer, can also make

luminous any dark place on earth.

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The Lusty Month of May!

I actually saw a goose “goose” a goose. In broad daylight!

Ah, well; it’s May. That lusty month of May.

Birds are flitting about, warbling their songs, building their nests. Robins and wrens, sparrows and finch, even the mallards are making way for their ducklings.

I’ve been busy doing spring cleaning in the garden, raking up leaves left on the flower beds from last Autumn, uncovering shoots that seem to burst forth with all the eagerness of a fourth grader once the weather warms and the sun shines. I also uncovered a frog – and a snake, who very rudely stuck his tongue out at me. Imagine that!

We hear there is a fox den under our neighbor’s shed. She counted five kits the other day. I take extra trips out to the compost pile in hopes of seeing them.

There is new growth everywhere, from the emerging ferns to the dripping pine cones. Tiny scilla cast long shadows and crocus pop up from under decaying leaves.

It’s May! It’s May! The lusty month of May.

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Red Light, Green Light

Image from squido.com

As youngsters, we played a game on the lawn or in the street called Red light, Green light.  All would line up on some imaginary line (or crack in the cement) while one chosen “it” would be a distance away, facing in the opposite direction. When he or she shouted “green light”, the rest would charge forward until the words “red light” were heard and everyone would stop, stock still. The object was to tag “it” and not be seen moving on a red light. It was a simply yard game that filled up our time on a summer’s night and it came to mind yesterday as I idled in my car at a red light.

There I sat on the pavement, a hill of green lawn to my left, an expanse of field to my right, and a UPS distribution center looming ahead as I waited for the GO sign to navigate onto the tollway. Something moved peripherally. As I turned my head it stopped. Again, a subtle movement. Red light. Green light.

Then I saw it on its long, spindly legs with distinctive bands like a necklace around its neck, looking at me (or so I thought), then, a second one, a wee bit smaller, crossing into the UPS parking lot.

Ah, the tactics killdeer will use to distract predators from a nest. These two were playing the game, though neither employed the broken wing tactic killdeers are known to use to distract predators from a nest.

Maybe they were just trying to send something via UPS. I’d best push publish now, for my light has turned green.

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A little walk

I took a little walk about the garden yesterday, through the mud and past branches strewn like pick up sticks, remnants of other storms.

The Creeping Charlie has already started invading the awakening flower beds, competing with Creeping Jenny, who is welcome here.

Midway, I stopped to clean out the bluebird box of the twigs and feathers last year’s wren family left. A tiny remnant of an egg cracked through. How do these birds do it; weaving sticks and twigs and candy wrappers into a prairie homestead on a post?

Here, a male cardinal flattered, dashing in his red coat. There, two goldfinch fought, mid-air, for first dibs on the thistle feeder.

The white flags of several doe signaled my intrusion as they grazed in the vacant lot next door.

My eyes wandered, looking for the red fox Tom spied crossing our little acreage a few days ago, heading first toward the east, then, soon afterwards, back to the west and our neighbors’ property, a prize in its mouth. We suspect a den nearby.

I scratched some leaves around, looking for new growth on the underbelly of the Cutoff and found tips of hosta poking through the ground. I covered them up for a few days more, then noticed the clematis and roses putting forth tentative shades of green. Nearby, the celandine poppies and brunnera Langstree are happily congregating in the softest of clusters.

There is hope, my friend, in this garden of life – and hope here on the Cutoff. What have you noticed lately in your own walk through life? Did you ever play pick up sticks?

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Hanging tight to our roots

“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. 
I am haunted by waters.”                Norman Maclean

On Monday, I passed by Salt Creek at Fullersburg Woods on my way home. The water was running swiftly, the sun was brilliant, warming the April air, and swales of daffodils and Siberian squill blanketed the earth around the Graue Mill. My undisciplined self could not help but to turn off of the road I was on, park the car, pull out my camera, and wander a bit in the luxury of Spring’s emerging carpet. Little did I know, at that same moment, what horrors were occurring in Boston, nor how the small town of West in Texas would become so explosively devastated a few days later, or how these very same waters I crossed would soon rise, bringing their own destruction and revealing their own dark secrets as more than six inches of rain pummeled the area.

This was a haunting week that tried our souls, brought out the measure of many, the evil of some, and both the beauty and the brutality of nature and of man. A week most of us will not soon forget. A week that reminds us to hang on tight to our roots and to all things that are good, to hold our loved ones close and live our fullest in each and every moment we are given.

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