Notes From the Blossoming Woods

 

Hawthorn Blossom and leaves

A collage of new green speckled white with the petals of apple and hawthorn blossoms.  The soft sweetness of Japanese Honeysuckle.  So much bird song even my Merlin App can’t keep up with it.

I breathe deep and walk purposely one footstep at a time. I step where the deer have walked, I know because I can see their footprints in the mud.

Now I part the honeysuckle bush like a curtain and arrive at the waterfall.  It’s small, only a few feet high,  but loud enough to blur the birdsong.

Frog jumps into the steam and becomes a rock.

I pass the little pine as tall as my boot.  It has many arms, each one holding a thick, pale green tassel.  It looks like it’s celebrating, glad to be alive.

As we turn for home, Fate, like a horse,  just wants to get back.

She runs ahead, but Zinnia waits for me.  There is always something for her to sniff or eat, while I squat to look at what I think is a centipede on a rock and nod to the hawthorn who is as tall as me.

Notes From The Barnyard

 

Suddenly the grass is green
red buds tip the maples,
the pussy willows
now,
low, soft, yellow clouds above the marsh.

The voice of each bird melts into a single song

A strong, warm, spring wind washes away the winter
Clouds mix it up in the sky

The plotting rain,
first life before man’s God,
when the Earth was in her earliest season

I foolishly think it’s safe to put the snow shovels away.

Notes From The Snowy Woods

Zinnia on the other side of the Gulley Bridge. It withstood all the flooding, ice and now snow so far.

The wet snow packs hard under my snowshoes, with each step I carry a brick beneath my foot.

Long shadows like purple ribbons undulate on the swells of snow that cover the ground in the woods.

The naked tree tops wink at me in every color of the rainbow. All around me, the crinkle of bits of ice breaking from the branches.  They drop in the snow making smooth round pocks and divots.

The faint, snow-blurred feet of a rabbit.  The thread-thin foot and tail prints of mice going from tree to tree. A mole or vole plows a wavy line that ends in a hole.   The feet, brush of wings, and feet again of a small bird.  Where  Biddy’s body is slowly disappearing, the tracks of a single coyote circle her remains which have been dug up from the snow.

Snow fleas gather, speckling the snow gray at the base of a tree.

How do they choose the tree? Are they always in the sun, or maybe north of the tree? How long do they live? Where do they come from?

Since I have learned what snow fleas are, they are no longer invisible to me.

Vole or mole trail in the snow

Notes From The Morning Pasture

One of only four apples growing on the crabapple tree.

I’m not dressed warm enough.

The morning dew is icy, the metal gate, cold on my hands
Yet the grass is still long and green
Unusual for early September.

The shorter days feel like a sad ending
But the chilled air is a welcome memory, the only nostalgia I can bear.

Notes From The Back Porch at 2AM

Photo of light from the last full moon

I’m standing on the back porch without expectation.  I only know I need to be outside.

Small deep blue clouds fill the sky. The clouds closest to the moon are edged in moonlight.

The moon is a boat of hard light.

There is one red star (or is it a planet) on the horizon and higher, a sparkle here and there between the quick-moving clouds.

Now a flash of light in the southern sky.   Lightening softened by distance.

Crickets and frogs hum steadily, a blanket infusing the air, caressing my bare skin.

On top of that, an owl singing the night.

Full Moon Fiber Art