Who's that squatting in my bluebird house?

Yesterday afternoon I opened the front of the restored bluebird house. The contents left me taken aback. I've seen similar, larger nests in heron rookeries and made by eagles or ospreys. Never before have I come across a nest in a bluebird or martin house made entirely of twigs or sticks and looking like this.

who built this stack of twigs?

Photo by J. Harrington

Thanks to the wonders of the internets,  I was able to search for possible explanations of which bird or birds would fill a bluebird house with twigs and only twigs. There's a long list, longer than I expected, of "Nests and eggs that may show up in bluebird nestboxes." Since, in past years, I may have misidentified a house finch as a purple finch, the twigs may have belonged to a house finch. Then, again, based on the  photos of the "dummy nest," I'm leaning toward identifying the mess I cleaned out as having belonged to a house wren. I'll keep an eye on the nesting box more frequently in hopes that a bluebird of happiness may return to raise a family if it doesn't have to battle squatters.

bird on the right: purple finch  or house finch?

Photo by J. Harrington

Two years ago, for the  first time I noticed, the tree swallows that have been nesting over the years in the house we put up to attract martins were battling the bluebirds over territory. Last year the neighborhood bear took down the nesting box, consumed the eggs or nestlings, and left a broken 2" X 4" on which the box had been mounted for about twenty years. This year, along with all the other craziness of 2020, the restored bluebird house has attracted some other species. I am truly starting to yearn for the good old days, although I read that the arrow of time travels in only one direction. It may be interesting to see what else happens between now and the start of migration season.

Baby Wrens’ Voices

By Thomas R. Smith

I am a student of wrens. 

When the mother bird returns 

to her brood, beak squirming 

with winged breakfast, a shrill 

clamor rises like jingling 

from tiny, high-pitched bells. 

Who’d have guessed such a small 

house contained so many voices? 

The sound they make is the pure sound 

of life’s hunger. Who hangs our house 

in the world’s branches, and listens 

when we sing from our hunger? 

Because I love best those songs 

that shake the house of the singer, 

I am a student of wrens.

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Any nest in a storm?

I don't want to name names, but someone in this household is afraid of thunder. It makes her very nervous. She seeks security and reassurance with lots of petting and snuggling. This didn't used to be an issue. It's not clear what happened to turn a blondish, yellow lab cross-breed into a scaredy cat. (Ssshhh, don't tell her I said wrote that!) She thought that maybe an early breakfast at 2:30ish am followed by a walk might help her settle down. We had a break in the rain so we tried that. It worked for awhile, until the next round of lightning and thunder rolled through. I am not responsible of any typos that may pop up in today's posting. I thought I'd foregone sleep deprivation when the youngest child started school those many years ago. I was overly optimistic (me? 😉).

what makes you think I'm afraid of a little thunder?

Photo by J. Harrington

At least we didn't get the five inches or so that flooded several counties South of us, but the "wet spot" in the back yard is once again showing water. It had shrunk to a layer of mud during the past few weeks. The low spot in the driveway is once again a puddle. Birds frequently use it to take a bath. I suspect, from the news and weather reports this morning, the trout streams we were planning on fishing thus week may not be in prime condition, so we'll save them for another time.

a bluebird egg in an abandoned nest

Photo by J. Harrington

Before the storms arrive last night, I saw what I think was a bluebird perched on top of the reinstalled bluebird house. It may be that the plan to provide a potential home for a second brood this Summer might pay off. Once before we managed a picture of a bluebird egg that had failed to hatch, so we have a decent idea of what bluebird eggs look like. I'll slog out this afternoon and report back tomorrow if the hordes of deer flies don't grab me and drag me off into the woods.

We hope you remain warm, dry, and virus-free and that your house isn't in one of the recently identified flood-prone areas that our new, more volatile weather patterns are helping us discover.

Egg

By Brian Swann

We are in the position of defining myth by the shape of its absence.
-Sean Kane, Wisdom of the Mythtellers

The bluebird's cold mistimed egg

fetched up from the one-legged

box after the pair had left for

points south & unknown (never,

as it turned out, to return) I

renested in the half-geode by

the windowsill where it gleamed

&, months becoming years, seemed

about to last forever, grow more

consistent with itself, holding its pure

blue firmament up over what by now

was nothing, till one January day, snow

melting to a fast flood,

I blew it softly onto my palm so I could

hold its cerulean up against new sky,

home against home, where it lay

weightless & delicate as the Xmas ornament

we'd just put away, but when I went

to roll it gently back onto its bed,

& leave it there, I saw a thread,

a crack, another, watched it sink in

slowly on itself, shard on shard collapsing

from my touch & breath, relaxing

into the shape of its absence

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The end of June begins July

Today is the last Sunday in June 2020. July begins in a few days. Look for the [Ojibwe] full moon [Miin-giizis (Berry Moon)] next weekend on Independence Day. By then, we will have lost 7 minutes of daylight since the Summer solstice on June 21, but it still will be awhile until Jack Frost returns, although the prospect of a hard frost that thins out the deer flies and mosquitos has some real appeal.

oriole at grape feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning we enjoyed one of the occasional visits Baltimore orioles have recently been making to the grape feeder. Unfortunately, the grape jelly is also attracting increasing numbers of yellow jackets, so we're taking it down and putting it away until next Spring. The orioles will have to settle for sharing the nectar feeder with hummingbirds and woodpeckers.

early July milkweed blossoms

Photo by J. Harrington

Still no appearances of local whitetail fawns or wild turkey poults and very little of the milkweed is in bloom yet. There are noticeably fewer dragon flies. The back yard brush pile continues to regrow. The next Celtic / Druidic / Pagan festival is "Lughnasadh on August 1st, which marks the beginning of harvest time." It's funny how, when I was back in school, Summer seemed to last almost forever. These days it seems to be gone almost as soon as it arrives, except for those hot, humid spells that never seem to end.  Let's all see what we can do to have a safe, healthy, and happy Summer this year so we can celebrate with Blue fireworks on Independence day 2021.

Milkweed

Helen Hunt Jackson

O patient creature with a peasant face, 
Burnt by the summer sun, begrimed with stains, 
And standing humbly in the dingy lanes! 
There seems a mystery in thy work and place, 
Which crowns thee with significance and grace; 
Whose is the milk that fills thy faithful veins? 
What royal nursling comes at night and drains 
Unscorned the food of the plebeian race? 
By day I mark no living thing which rests 
On thee, save butterflies of gold and brown, 
Who turn from flowers that are more fair, more sweet, 
And, crowding eagerly, sink fluttering down, 
And hang, like jewels flashing in the heat, 
Upon thy splendid rounded purple breasts.

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As we approach Summer's once distant dog days...

Were you up early enough to enjoy the ground fog this morning? SiSi and I saw three different amounts and densities over three separate fields around the house. As attractive as I find misty mornings, some real rain is needed. Starting tomorrow, thunderstorms are in the forecast for four of the next five days. Of course, thunderstorms were forecast for the past two or three days and ... Nada!

the beauty of a misty morning marsh

Photo by J. Harrington

After the upcoming thunderstorms, a subsequent series of days with temperatures in the 90's should convince us that we're enjoying peak Summer. Right? Remember the cold and snow and wind of five or six months ago, when we, at least some of us, were wishing then that it was now? Now we have it. Are we trying to hurry Winter back? I hope not.

the drama of a Summer thunderstorm

Photo by J. Harrington

I do admit to a quandary. With the expected heat and humidity, wearing waders, even lightweight ones, promises to be more than a little uncomfortably soggy, especially if fishing from a bank instead of wading cool water. Then again, the sections of river I'm planning to fish are noted for their silty bottom, which suggests staying out of the water. I'm seriously contemplating wearing wading boots, jeans, and wading wet if need be. That might expose me to tick bites but I've already removed three this Summer so, maybe, that might be an end to them? Not likely. We'll give this some more thought. Instead of getting caught between a rock and a hard place, we may be caught between a tick and a soft (river) bottom.

Mist

Henry David Thoreau - 1817-1862

Low-anchored cloud,
Newfoundland air,
Fountain-head and source of rivers,
Dew-cloth, dream-drapery,
And napkin spread by fays;
Drifting meadow of the air,
Where bloom the daisied banks and violets,
And in whose fenny labyrinth
The bittern booms and heron wades;
Spirit of lakes and seas and rivers,—
Bear only perfumes and the scent
Of healing herbs to just men’s fields.

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Summer's harbingers

Today the air feels sultry. A classic case of "it's not the heat, it's the humidity." I've been in Sun City, Arizona, in the Summer and know what a "dry heat" feels like. What we have in East Central Minnesota today isn't it. There have been scattered, very light sprinkles of rain, not even what  I'd consider showers, but no real thunderstorms or rainfall overnight or today so far.

ladybug on hoary alyssum

Photo by J. Harrington

Roadside fields, those not planted to corn, soybeans or sod, are showing nice colors of white (common boneset, I believe, or, maybe, hoary alyssum) and lavender (crown vetch, probably). The days are already getting shorter (about one minute less than solstice). Hoards of mosquitos and deer flies continue to harass dog walkers and their charges. Some local dog, more likely the black border collie cross than the yellow lab cross, has been sneaking both kinds of biting insects into the house. (Insects are more noticeable by far on blond dog hair, so they can be, and usually are, removed before the dog is allowed into the house. Noticing deer flies on black border collie fur is a fool's errand.)

One of the local avian critters has built a nest (of twigs) in the restored bluebird house. One day soon we'll take a peek and see if anyone is actually home. Any cleanout can wait until after Autumn migration. Unlike the current regime in Washington, D.C., I don't believe in breaking up migrant families.

daytime firefly(?)

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half informed me this morning that there were observable fireflies in the fields behind the house last night. With the outside chores I've been getting caught up on the past few days, I was too tuckered out to see them. Maybe sometime over this weekend I'll have the energy to stay alert and bushy-tailed (or is that bushy-taled?) enough to enjoy a show of fireworks without the bangs.

The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

—Mary Oliver

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The balance of nature sometimes bugs me

It seems to me about this time every year I declaim the deer flies and mosquitos are worse than I've every seen them. And every year, one or both of the dogs agrees with me, especially SiSi, who keeps getting bites on her muzzle. Now, if my assessment were accurate, and  the bugs had been bigger and badder each and every year for the past twenty-five or so, you can bet we would have had enough after ten or fifteen years and sold the place. It seems there may be a slight disconnect between my (and SiSi's) perception and reality.

frog feeding at bird bath

Photo by J. Harrington

On the other hand, the mosquitos, deer flies and, some years, black flies are aggravating enough that we gave up gardening years ago. Neither the Better Half nor I have enough hands and arms to simultaneously pull weeds and swat bugs. I'm starting to suspect that, subconsciously, part of the reason I'm attracted to fly-fishing and bird feeding is that trout, and many birds, eat bugs. Our populations of frogs and toads help out that way too. Wouldn't Minnesota Summers be more enjoyable if we had just enough insects to support trout, and birds, and bats and frogs and toads (sounds like a witches brew, doesn't it?) and not enough excess insect populations to harass us humans? I suppose this kind of thinking is enough to get me drummed out of the society of naturalists and ecologists. It certainly puts a dent in any perspective that more is better, doesn't it?

One of the emerging trends these days revolves around eating insects. Given my aversion to being bitten, you might think I'd be in favor of increased consumption of bugs. I am, but not directly. Just as I prefer my field corn to have been processed by an angus beef, I'd rather my edible insects first be processed by a wild turkey, a brook trout, or a ruffed grouse.

red admiral butterfly

Photo by J. Harrington

Lest there be any concern about it, I am all for growing wildflowers for pollinators, particularly butterflies and hummingbirds (see bird feeding above). I've yet to suffer an itchy or painful butterfly bite, they're pretty, and their flight is a delight. Bees help provide flowers I enjoy and food I eat and I've managed to avoid most bee stings thus far in my life. Unfortunately, the Better Half and I have had every wildflower garden we've planted so far fail after a single season. Sand plain soils and erratic rain patterns probably account for most of those failures. Last, but far from least, where have all the fireflies that I so loved disappeared to? The Better Half says I hit the sack to early to enjoy them. I say if they were there to be enjoyed, I'd be up later watching. If a firefly blinks in the evening, there's someone there to watch it, right?

Ecological Poem

By Brian Kim Stefans

Around the pool the hippos drool

as if the chloride wouldn’t kill them.

In fact, they like to play the fool,

the harbinger, the pilgrim.

The bird that plops into the glass

makes a sound, then isn’t there.

Spiders toss, in oleaginous mass,

Goo Gone into the air.

The ants that drag a beat-up car

onto the lawn are emissaries

of some forgotten prince or tsar

from an HBO miniseries.

The cheetah, panther, jaguar, and lynx

(some of these might be the same)

conjure images of Sphinx

and other trademarked names.

The dynamited hole now teems

with insects shiny and obscene,

crawling, dying, though it dreams

an ectoplasm of green.

My own two cats stiffen, confused

at this profusion past the door.

They bat at things they’ve often used

for sound therapy before.

I tell you this out of principle:

that spiraling around a theme

(while naming lots of animals)

can supercharge a meme.

My own skin founders in the rush

of allergenic, if cautious, beasts.

Eyes eye darkness, ears hear hush — 

the assassin’s humor feasts.

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Water is life. A river is water. Therefore...

I think I've read Norman Maclean's A River Runs Through It at least a couple of times and watched the movie once or twice. An all-time favorite quotation of mine comes from the novel:

“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.”

a famous trout stream near "The Cities"

Photo by J. Harrington

For most of my adult life, I too have been haunted by waters. In my case it was first the Atlantic Ocean and several of the rivers that feed into it. Since moving to Minnesota, I've been drawn more to the  area's rivers than its lakes. Superior is the exception because it is an inland sea lacking only a salt tang in the air. My copy of Maclean's book is coming off of the library shelf and put in the stack for reading next Winter, when trout, fly-fishing, and much of the open water of our rivers are but temporally distant fantasies. To accompany  the novel, I'll look at the wonderful photography recently published in the Star Tribune under the title of Maclean's novel and eponymous movie. You can see it yourself if you follow this link: A river runs through it. For my taste, it's one of the better things the Strib has published.

fingerling trout in a "Trout in the Classroom" aquarium

Photo by J. Harrington

Having fished an ocean and several of the West's more famous trout streams, I admit a bias against narrow, brush-tunneled, creeks that serve as home to many of the Midwest's native and naturalized trout. In the Driftless Area of Southwestern Wisconsin and Southeast Minnesota, lots of the rivers and streams also are subject to devastating flash floods. It's nice to see some pictures of them when they're on their best behavior and to be reminded that I haven't fished any of the trout waters near The Cities since they've been improved and restored although I need to get back in shape before I try fishing stretches as adventurous as the one John Lenczewski is wading. These days it's rare that anything in a newspaper helps improve my Summer, but this time the Star Tribune landed a record.

The Trout

Amy Lowell - 1874-1925

          Naughty little speckled trout,
          Can't I coax you to come out?
          Is it such great fun to play
          In the water every day?

          Do you pull the Naiads' hair
          Hiding in the lilies there?
          Do you hunt for fishes' eggs,
          Or watch tadpoles grow their legs?

          Do the little trouts have school
          In some deep sun-glinted pool,
          And in recess play at tag
          Round that bed of purple flag?

          I have tried so hard to catch you,
          Hours and hours I've sat to watch you;
          But you never will come out,
          Naughty little speckled trout!

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Do we need more colorful communications?

Do you remember the colors and levels of terrorism threat alerts? Should we have something comparable for COVID-19 threats? Something like RED for a place where none of the staff or patrons wear masks or maintain social distances (tRUMP rally?) to GREEN where everyone is sensitive to protecting themselves and others? As I recall, the terrorism alerts didn't work very well and became a bit of a joke because: what were we to do differently when a threat level went up or down? With COVID-19, I'd be inclined to stay away from anyplace that wasn't flying a GREEN flag. And, I think there  should be criminal liability for flying false colors.

The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change [IPCC] should probably have and use something akin to the Doom's Day Clock for Climate Breakdown alone. Combining nuclear war and climate change creates what I consider to be unacceptable amounts and types of masking. Are each of the dangers at the same distance from midnight, or is the 100 seconds alert an average? Plus, I rather strenuously disagree with the statement on the Atomic Scientists web site that claims "The international security situation is dire, not just because these threats exist, but because world leaders have allowed the international political infrastructure for managing them to erode."

Not all world leaders have contributed equally to the erosion. At least nominally, the United States damn fool voters allowed a grossly untrained and incompetent fraud to be selected POTUS, so, collectively, we're among the most dire threats to creating Doomsday. That doesn't make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. What about you?

I'm off on a kick about words mean something. Politicians and scientists (and journalists) have been, in my opinion, lazy, vague, and ambiguous to the  point of becoming meaningless. Before one can be expected to "walk the talk," one must be able to "talk the talk." Even the March Hare knows that:

“Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on.

"I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know."

"Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that "I see what I eat" is the same thing as "I eat what I see"!”

― Lewis Carroll 

Climate Change utterly fails to convey the risk humans and their built environment face as the consequences of a broken or disrupted climate. The namby-pamby "guidance" on how to stay safe and help keep others safe during a time of pandemic is just asking for trouble. There ore too many people with an over-developed sense of entitlement to do whatever we can't keep them from doing. Isn't it then time for us to actually push back with more than words and a few tsk, tsks?

There's one writer these days who, I think, does much better than average at presenting challenging, potentially discomforting, information in a way that feels acceptable and makes sense. She also presents not only the challenges and problems we face, but also viable ways to respond to them. Check out some (or all) of Margaret J. Wheatley's books and other products. There's a number of examples available on her web site.

Truth Serum

By Naomi Shihab Nye

We made it from the ground-up corn in the old back pasture.

Pinched a scent of night jasmine billowing off the fence,   

popped it right in.

That frog song wanting nothing but echo?   

We used that.

Stirred it widely. Noticed the clouds while stirring.

Called upon our ancient great aunts and their long slow eyes   

of summer. Dropped in their names.   

Added a mint leaf now and then   

to hearten the broth. Added a note of cheer and worry.   

Orange butterfly between the claps of thunder?   

Perfect. And once we had it,

had smelled and tasted the fragrant syrup,   

placing the pan on a back burner for keeping,   

the sorrow lifted in small ways.

We boiled down the lies in another pan till they disappeared.

We washed that pan.

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Signs of Summer #phenology

Yesterday was the first full day of Summer. Today we noticed the year's first day lilies in bloom. They're on the South side of the house in a sheltered ell, so it's not surprising they're often the first to blossom. From now into August, one or another version of a day lily will most likely be in flower around here.

first daylily blooms of the year

Photo by J. Harrington

First thing this morning, as I was hanging the bird feeders (June has historically been a prime month for bear visitations), I startled a whitetail doe who headed toward the pear tree; stopped; looked around; and wandered away. What was a little unnerving is that the doe's hair made her appear to be almost blond, or maybe strawberry blond. I've seen few such pale deer in Summer time. (Or in Winter for that matter.) If I didn't have some pictures from years past of pale deer I might think what I saw was actually a ghost deer. Most of our local herd is more a reddish / tan color like the one below.

whitetail doe at pear tree

Photo by J. Harrington

Earlier this month the Better Half made an interesting discovery near the front hose. If you look carefully at the picture below, you should be able to make out the snake skin that was shed (grayish band between the house and the violet leaves). What's visible in the picture is about half the total length. (I carefully retrieved the whole thing a couple of days after the picture was taken.) I'm full of hope and glee that the snake belonging to the skin (hognose or gopher?) is busily prowling the pocket gopher tunnels in the fields behind the house and having to frequently rest to digest a meal.

shed snakeskin

Photo by J. Harrington

Snakeskin

By Stephen Behrendt

Pruning back the old spirea bushes

that sprawled for years in summer's heat,

I bared the snake skin, a yard and a half long:

its naked empty length rippled in the streaming wind

lifting its ghostly coils from the dead shoots

that scraped the slough from the slithering body

that shed it in that narrow, shaded space.

I paused—who wouldn't?—shears poised,

slipped off gray canvas gloves, extracted

the sere, striated casing from the brown stalks

that had held it, silent, hidden.

I coiled the paper-thin curling sheath with care,

delicately, eased it into a simple squatty box

for keeping, for care, for my daughters

to take to school, to show, to explain

how some sinuous body we've never glimpsed,

that haunts about our shrubs, our porch,

left for us this translucent, scale-scored wrapper,

this silent hint of all that moves unseen.

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#HappyFathersDay!

Last night's solstice was duly celebrated with a backyard "bonfire" after dinner. We lucked out with a brief period of showers ending at 4:30 pm or so and friends we'd not seen for awhile showing up. As we were watching the fire, I wandered into the field behind the house and noticed, for the first time this year, that the sheep sorrel has matured and is about to start flowering. When that happens it will add a nice reddish tone to the fields.

Summer solstice: torching the brush pile

Photo by J. Harrington

On the North side of the brush (mostly buckthorn) pile, I noticed a few poison ivy vines that had started growing. Usually, poison ivy grows at wood's edge, not in the midst of a grassy field. My speculation is that birds had fed on the poison ivy berries; subsequently perched on the brush pile branches; defecated the seeds from the berries, and the ivy got enough shade / edge effect from the brush pile to feel right at home. Fortunately, I avoided stepping in it or burning it yesterday. Today I sprayed it with poison ivy killer. The same seed deposition pattern would explain a cluster of poison ivy I've already sprayed that "magically" appeared in a field near the road next to a telephone pole. To paraphrase Joe Cocker, "like a bird on a wire..." helps explain the magic of those new strands of poison ivy.

Sometime this week we'll start rebuilding a brush pile in time for another fire to celebrate one or more of the feasts of Lughnasadh (August 1), the Autumn equinox (around September 21) or Samhain (Halloween). There's more buckthorn to be pulled and burning seems the most straightforward way to get rid of it.

May all of you, and your fathers, and your grandfathers, and your sons and daughters and wives and mothers enjoy a healthy, safe, happily memorable Father's Day that carries through the Summer.

Digging

By Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

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Welcome to Summer, solstice!

Today, in the Northern hemisphere, the sun will reach its most northerly point at 4:23 this afternoon, our local time. If we stop to think about it, for one half of the year, the days get longer. For the other half, they get shorter. There is no extended period when they are all the same length. Things, including daylight and length of night, are always changing. And yet, unless we are among the relative few whose days are actually governed by the length of daylight, we pay little or no attention to anything but artificial time measured by mechanical or electric clocks.

Summer solstice, the dawning of a new season

Photo by J. Harrington

The (quasi-)mechanical portrait of our solar system that I was taught about in grammar school may have been an improvement over the concept that the sun revolved around the earth, but does it fit with the concept that "our" universe is expanding? Sometimes I ponder such questions as I pull buckthorn. Occasionally I wonder about them instead of pulling buckthorn. If I overindulge in heat, humidity, stubborn buckthorn, and bugs, I can do unhealthy things to my blood pressure.

a solstice celebration

Photo by J. Harrington

With luck, and some cooperation from the weather, this evening we'll celebrate the solstice by ignighting the brush pile (of mostly buckthorn) in the back yard. Perhaps some friends, whom we haven't seen in too long, may stop by. We'll maintain proper social distances. Some, perhaps all, of us will wear face masks. COVID-19 is slowly becoming but another speed bump in our lives' highways. Its repercussions may be more serious than the slowly healing tick bite on my leg, but with proper precautions and some luck, neither ticks, nor mosquitos nor COVID-19 will result in premature termination of our journey. Would you think Summer's heat had melted my brain if I asked "What was there before the big bang went boom?" May today's solstice bring us Northerners an enjoyable, healthy and safe Summer.

Solstice

Tess Taylor

How again today our patron star
whose ancient vista is the long view

turns its wide brightness now and here:
Below, we loll outdoors, sing & make fire.

We build no henge
but after our swim, linger

by the pond. Dapples flicker
pine trunks by the water.

Buzz & hum & wing & song combine.
Light builds a monument to its passing.

Frogs content themselves in bullish chirps,
hoopskirt blossoms

on thimbleberries fall, peeper toads
hop, lazy—

            Apex. The throaty world sings ripen.
Our grove slips past the sun’s long kiss.

We dress.
We head home in other starlight.

Our earthly time is sweetening from this.

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Summer solstice tomorrow!

In our neighborhood, solstice will occur at 4:43 pm (CDT) tomorrow. At that point, meteorological and astronomical seasons will be in alignment until September 1. I understand the principle behind meteorological and astronomical seasons not being identical, but I wish I knew what to call these in-between three week periods we get several times a year. Are the first three weeks of June Sprummer? How about the first three weeks of September? Is that Autumnsum? Sumfall?

four turkeys in June

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning we watched four wild turkeys hunt and peck their way around the field behind the house. If we're lucky, they were gobbling down ticks. They seemed to be taking more time than usual working their way through the field and into the  woods on the North side  of the property. I've no idea why they were slow moving today but it was fun watching them. Sometime soon we should start to see poults along  with the hens.

Please accept our best wishes — that we all get to enjoy a safe, healthy, mellow Summer. I'm sure there are some who may feel that such conditions may infringe on their freedom and ability to raise hell. For them, I wish a prompt visit from karma. I have a stack of new, unread books; a fly line that has yet to touch the water and needs to be baptized; plus an aversion to crowds and becoming infected with COVID-19. I say let's "roll out those lazy, hazy, crazy days of Summer" while each of us enjoys our very own Summer place.

Summer Wind

By William Cullen Bryant

It is a sultry day; the sun has drunk

The dew that lay upon the morning grass;

There is no rustling in the lofty elm

That canopies my dwelling, and its shade

Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint

And interrupted murmur of the bee,

Settling on the sick flowers, and then again

Instantly on the wing. The plants around

Feel the too potent fervors: the tall maize

Rolls up its long green leaves; the clover droops

Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms.

But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills,

With all their growth of woods, silent and stern,

As if the scorching heat and dazzling light

Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds,

Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven–

Their bases on the mountains–their white tops

Shining in the far ether–fire the air

With a reflected radiance, and make turn

The gazer’s eye away. For me, I lie

Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf,

Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun,

Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind

That still delays his coming. Why so slow,

Gentle and voluble spirit of the air?

Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth

Coolness and life! Is it that in his caves

He hears me? See, on yonder woody ridge,

The pine is bending his proud top, and now

Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak

Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes;

Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves!

The deep distressful silence of the scene

Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds

And universal motion. He is come,

Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs,

And bearing on their fragrance; and he brings

Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs,

And sound of swaying branches, and the voice

Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs

Are stirring in his breath; a thousand flowers,

By the road-side and the borders of the brook,

Nod gayly to each other; glossy leaves

Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew

Were on them yet, and silver waters break

Into small waves and sparkle as he comes.

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

As solstice nears

More and more of the yellow goat's beard (Tragopogon dubius) has turned petals to seedheads. Meanwhile, our local milkweed is still several weeks from blossoming. Trillium is past it's prime and the flowers are largely gone. Still no sightings of whitetail fawns.

yellow goat's beard seed head

Photo by J. Harrington

Our day lily plants have developed flower buds so they should start flowering sometime soon, later this year than we've come to expect. Lots of dragonflies continue to patrol the neighborhood, although so do lots of mosquitos. More dragonflies, bluebirds, and tree swallows would be wonderful. I much prefer the song of a bird to the hummmm! of an insect, although I realize the latter helps provide for the former.

perched dragonfly

Photo by J. Harrington

Many years ago there was a comic strip called "Miss Peach," about a kindergarten teacher, her students and school. If I recall correctly, one of the students, Arthur Strimm, had a "law of efficiency." He never did anything until someone told him at least twice. Since lots of folks forgot after they told him the first time, he saved his energy by waiting for the repeated request of command. I've found myself in a similar position recently. Things I put off doing, as I think about doing  them a second time, I realize what I wanted to do in the first place is kind of dumb. Here's an example:

I've been meaning to mark my fly lines at 10, 20 and 30 yards. That way I'd more easily estimate how much line I was casting compared to how far away a trout was rising. Well, the likelihood I'd ever manage a 30 yard (90 foot) cast in this lifetime is slim to none. Even a 20 yard (60 foot) cast is pushing it for me. I'll be better, and more realistically, served by marking my lines at 5, 10 and 15 yards. That's what I'll start with during this afternoon's storms. Arthur, and most like him, are brighter than they seem at first glance. It's the folks like me, who suffer grandiose OCD symptoms much of the time, that need a keeper.

Fly, Dragonfly!

By Joyce Sidman

Water nymph, you have

climbed from the shallows to don

your dragon-colors.

Perched on a reed stem

all night, shedding your skin, you dry

your wings in moonlight.

Night melts into day.

Swift birds wait to snap you up.

Fly, dragonfly! Fly!

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Helping to ensure there will be bluebirds for our tomorrows!

It was mid-May of last year when a neighborhood bear attacked one of our bluebird houses. That house has now been reinstalled on a sturdier 4" X 4" post. We'll add a predator baffle soon. Or, perhaps further research may indicate a preferred solution. It's possible that waiting until a hot mid-day during one of the hottest days of the year so far may indicate that my judgement is further diminishing with age. Or, it may just be a signal that I'm as stubborn as I've ever been. With any luck, the reinstalled house may attract a bluebird pair set on raising a second brood this Summer. If not, it certainly will be ready come next Spring, barring lightning strikes.

bluebird perched on bird feeder hanger

Photo by J. Harrington

I haven't taken a peek to see if anyone is nesting in the box we have in front  of the house. That might be a fun thing to do tomorrow. We have had some other cavity-nesting bird use the front house, but I'm not sure what nondescript, brownish bird it was. I'm pretty sure it wasn't any kind of sparrow. Meanwhile, today I still have to finish putting away some tools, add the left over dirt to the compost tumbler, and mow where the tumbler used to sit before the bear knocked it over a couple of days ago. With luck, I'll get these chores finished without being harassed by any more insects like the green bottle fly, or was it a sweat bee, that landed on my hand and behind my ear while walking SiSi earlier today.

Then, I think it may be time to do some pleasurable work in the air-conditioned house, like organizing fly rods and reels and putting a new fly line on a rod we haven't fished nearly enough since we got it. It's once again breezy enough that accurately casting a fly to a trout would be aggravating, so we prepare for better days.

The Call of the Wild 

Alexander Posey - 1873-1908

I’m tired of the gloom  
In a four-walled room;  
Heart-weary, I sigh  
For the open sky,  
And the solitude  
Of the greening wood;  
Where the bluebirds call,  
And the sunbeams fall,  
And the daisies lure 
The soul to be pure.  

I’m tired of the life 
In the ways of strife;  
Heart-weary, I long  
For the river’s song,  
And the murmur of rills  
In the breezy hills;  
Where the pipe of Pan— 
The hairy half-man— 
The bright silence breaks  
By the sleeping lakes.   

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

May the bluebird of happiness fly up your father's nose

Three days of temperatures at or near 90℉ several days prior to reaching Summer solstice makes me glad that the meteorologists started Summer on June 1st. I don't think I'd want to live where it climbs up to the 90's in Springtime.

We have an interesting weekend coming up. Summer solstice occurs on Saturday and Father's Day is on Sunday. We'll visit our son midday and our daughter at dinner time, maintaining appropriate social distancing and masking protocols. As our children have turned into adults, I find that, in addition to loving them as a parent, I like them as people. That's one of the nicest Father's Day presents I've ever received. We've been blessed that neither of our children has ever given us the amount  of grief and aggravation I caused my parents. Fortunately, I've gotten both a lot older and a little wiser since I was a teenager, sort of like Dylan's persona in My Back Pages. One of the interesting surprises of aging is that, instead of outgrowing them, I've come to appreciate most of Dylan's lyrics more and more each year. I suspect that says a lot more about his songwriting than it does about me.

bluebird on young pine

Photo by J. Harrington

We've not yet got around to replacing the bluebird house a bear took down last year. Despite a missing house, I believe I've seen a bluebird a couple of times this past week or so. Even in our current hot spell, I can make sure we set the replacement far enough from the lilac bush to allow the mower deck to easily pass between the lilac and the 4" X 4" replacement pole on which the box will be mounted. It's looking like this may be another year when we won't get to play with a Three Sisters' garden (still no sign of a repaired tiller), but there's no end of other projects that can use some attention and elbow grease. I'm even slowly learning to live with the idea that I'll never actually be "done" so I need to sit back and relax regardless.

May those of you who are able enjoy your fathers and your children, not just this coming weekend but every day. Each of us is here for such a short visit we can't afford to miss any opportunities to enjoy each other.

Landscape, Dense with Trees

By Ellen Bryant Voigt

When you move away, you see how much depends

on the pace of the days—how much

depended on the haze we waded through

each summer, visible heat, wavy and discursive

as the lazy track of the snake in the dusty road;

and on the habit in town of porches thatched in vines,

and in the country long dense promenades, the way

we sacrificed the yards to shade.

It was partly the heat that made my father

plant so many trees—two maples marking the site

for the house, two elms on either side when it was done;

mimosa by the fence, and as it failed, fast-growing chestnuts,

loblolly pines; and dogwood, redbud, ornamental crab.

On the farm, everything else he grew

something could eat, but this

would be a permanent mark of his industry,

a glade established in the open field. Or so it seemed.

Looking back at the empty house from across the hill,

I see how well the house is camouflaged, see how

that porous fence of saplings, their later

scrim of foliage, thickened around it,

and still he chinked and mortared, planting more.

Last summer, although he’d lost all tolerance for heat,

he backed the truck in at the family grave

and stood in the truckbed all afternoon, pruning

the landmark oak, repairing recent damage by a wind;

then he came home and hung a swing

in one of the horse-chestnuts for my visit.

The heat was a hand at his throat,

a fist to his weak heart. But it made a triumph

of the cooler air inside, in the bedroom,

in the maple bedstead where he slept,

in the brick house nearly swamped by leaves.

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.