North to South

I've visited Minnesota's North Shore a number of times since moving here from Massachusetts. Lake Superior is as close to an ocean as I get these days. The more I've spent time revisiting Highway 61 (couldn't resist), the more questions I've come away with; questions about what am I seeing and how did it get this way and has it always been like this? This Winter I should be able to answer some of those questions thanks to a new book by Chel Anderson and Adelheid Fischer, North Shore:  A Natural History of Minnesota's Superior Coast. I plan to save (and savor) reading the book for when it's too cold and/or snowy to enjoy being outside but, knowing me, I'll probably cheat and start some evening soon. With more than 600 pages to read, I'll be at it for awhile, although many of those pages are full of beautiful pictures of the area.
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The thought of changing seasons reminds me that I haven't seen any hummingbirds for several days now. Their migration peak looks to have shifted south, toward the Twin Cities, according to the folks who track those things. As of yesterday, however, trumpeter swans were still relaxing on local waters. I don't know if these are among the ones who Winter along the St. Croix or not. So many things I (we?) don't know about our neighbors and what's going on in our own back yards.

trumpeter swans on Carlos Avery WMA pool

Photo by J. Harrington

trumpeter swans on Carlos Avery WMA pool

Photo by J. Harrington

The late year

By Marge Piercy 

I like Rosh Hashonah late,

when the leaves are half burnt

umber and scarlet, when sunset

marks the horizon with slow fire

and the black silhouettes

of migrating birds perch

on the wires davening.

I like Rosh Hashonah late

when all living are counting

their days toward death

or sleep or the putting by

of what will sustain them—

when the cold whose tendrils

translucent as a jellyfish

and with a hidden sting

just brush our faces

at twilight. The threat

of frost, a premonition

a warning, a whisper

whose words we cannot

yet decipher but will.

I repent better in the waning

season when the blood

runs swiftly and all creatures

look keenly about them

for quickening danger.

Then I study the rockface

of my life, its granite pitted

and pocked and pickaxed

eroded, discolored by sun

and wind and rain—

my rock emerging

from the veil of greenery

to be mapped, to be

examined, to be judged.

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