Making some senses of Summer

The monarch butterfly caterpillars on our front yard milkweed have disappeared. Two likely options are that predators got one or both, or, that each of them is now healthy somewhere in a chrysalis. Since we've not seen any chrysalis, nor are we sure of where to look for them, we'll just continue to keep our eyes open and hope for the best.

monarch caterpillar on milkweed

Photo by J. Harrington

We're discovering more and more about how much we've never noticed in the world about us because, in large part, we rarely look carefully. A quick glance to be sure there's no bear lurking nearby in the woods, no cars or trucks on the road, and we're no about to walk into a tree or fall into a hole or trip on something underfoot is our normal level of observation. This seems to be in major contrast to the intensity with which our dogs scent the areas where they're walking us, although the dogs appear even less observant about what they see than we are. Then again, we rarely rely on our nose to check on who's about in the neighborhood.

turkey hens with poults

Photo by J. Harrington

Thinking about who's in the neighborhood these days, we're watching to see our first glimpse this year of hen turkeys with poults. The Better Half reported a sighting the other day but we've had no such luck yet. Maybe because few turkeys try to hide under milkweed plants, where we've been looking a lot recently?

Caterpillar

By Paul Hostovsky

After Ian Sanborn’s ASL poem of the same title

A man with eyes as blank

as the indifference of nature

is staring straight ahead

as the whole thing unfolds.

He has a black beard, black

shirt, black woolen cap — 

he could be a thief — you better

keep your eyes on his hands

which have begun clearing

a clearing. Here he plants

a seed as small as his own

fingernail, and shazam! it sprouts

roots, shoots, stems, branches — 

a whole tree shouldering up,

tossing and swaying in the air

between the sun’s magic hands

and the man’s indifferent eyes.

Next thing you know, an orphan

index finger is worming its way

across the stage that wasn’t

a stage until your eyeing it

made it so. It inches over

to the tree like a lost knuckle

finding its way home, its feelers

testing, feeling, sniffing, finding

purchase, finding a toe-hold,

the tiny, spiny, hairy, leg-like

appendages beginning to wiggle,

to climb, to shinny up the tree,

the elbow, the sheer escarpment,

pausing to send out a line,

a lasso, a long rope as fine

as the filament of a spider

launched from its abdomen

and hooking the thumb

of the lowest branch. A rope for

rappelling, for jumping off

this cliff, taking this dive,

twisting as it untwists, enfolding

as it unfolds, holding on for

dear life as it spins itself into

silk, those indifferent eyes

almost imperceptibly squinting

in sympathy with this closing

up, this cloaking, this cloistering,

this hanging upside down with

a pulse inside. A fluttering

pulse. A pulse like the flutter

of eyelids. Like the flutter

of wings. A heartbeat growing

stronger, stronger, breaking

out, breaking free, the wings

opening, the eyes opening as if

all this time they were closed — 

the blank eyes opening to the

wings, taking them in, incredulous,

in love with them — and the black

and white has grown iridescent;

the orphaned knuckle has found

the hands; the hands have found

their wings, and we are all

utterly blown away.

Ian Sanborn's ASL poem may be viewed here.

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