Welcome! I think the picture is of red clover. When I'm driving through the countryside, I frequently confuse it with crown vetch. I never confuse either of them with purple vetch, which I frequently confuse with hairy vetch. Plant identification at road-speed is unwise and unnecessarily challenging. I have a hard enough time standing over or kneeling next to a plant with a field guide in my hand. I do much better with wildlife, such as the large black bear we spotted yesterday as we were on our way to pick up our CSA share for the week at Amadore Hill farm. This one was two to three times the size of the "little" guy(?) we had visit our back yard earlier in the day (~100 lbs versus ~300 lbs). S/he was a couple of hundred yards away, headed into the woods from the back edge of a cornfield with a pigeon-toed stride that looked like s/he was shoulder-balancing a chip. It's a rare day when I get to see a black bear in the wild. Two in one day is magical. I gives me an entirely different feeling about where I live. Si-Si the blond lab stayed stretched out on the back seat and never noticed nor got excited. She travels well. She doesn't respect personal space very well nor the fact that food on the kitchen counter top isn't intended for her. This week's CSA cookie share largely disappeared while I was otherwise occupied. I'm certainly glad she didn't get her "better to ask forgiveness than permission" attitude from her owner. Neither of the bears we saw looked like they were about to ask permission either. In honor of Summer and a two-bear day, let's enjoy this Hayden Carruth bear poem.
Bears at Raspberry Time
Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily. By the way, if you're still not sure about [k]vetching, follow the link.Fear. Three bearsare not fear, motherand cubs come berryingin our neighborhood
like any other family.I want to see them, or anydistraction. Flashlightpoking across the brook
into briary darkness,but they have gone,noisily. I go to bed.Fear. Unwritten books
already titled. Someidiot will shoot the bearssoon, it always happens,they’ll be strung up by the paws
in someone’s frontyardmaple to be admired andmeasured, and I'll be paidfor work yet to be done—
with a broken imagination.At last I dream. Ourplum tree, little, black,twisted, gaunt in the
orchard: how for a momentlast spring it floweredserenely, translucentlybefore yielding its usual
summer crop of witheredleaves. I waken, late,go to the window, lookdown to the orchard.
Is middle age what makeseven dreams factual?The plum is serene andbright in new moonlight,
dressed in silver leaves,and nearby, in the wasteof rough grass strewnin moonlight like diamond dust,
what is it?—a dark shapemoves, and then another.Are they ... I can’tbe sure. The dark house
nuzzles my knee mutely,pleading for meaty dollars.Fear. Wouldn’t it be greatto write nothing at all
except poems about bears?