Backyard wildlife

This year there will be no windfall pears under the tree for local whitetails to enjoy. There's not a sign of a single fruit on the entire tree. The blossoms were beautiful back in late spring and early summer, but there seems to have been a lack of pollinators. [I think the tree is one that doesn't need to be cross-pollinated because we've had abundant fruit production in prior years.] Come next spring, we may have to seriously consider planting another fruit tree or two, especially if we manage to seriously diminish the pocket gopher population in the area where we plant the trees. We'll spend more time thinking about it this winter than is good for us, but that will be better than just sitting and brooding. The summer cloud cover, combined with the wildfire smoke, is triggering our seasonal affective disorder in what should be its off-season.

whitetail doe under pear tree

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, we had a couple of wild turkey hens wander through the back yard yesterday. We hope they found all the ticks that may still be lurking about after our recent mowing. We're working on a significant attitude adjustment, from treating yard work as a necessary evil to approaching it as a means to create the kind of environment in which we want to live, work and play. It's slow going but seems to be making an improvement in our emotional approach to "chores." Meanwhile, we're failing miserably at really understanding how to naturalize our yard, let the leaves fall where they may and stay there, and still expect to have any kind of ground cover other than leaves. If anyone has suggested references on this theme, please leave a note in the comments.

A Dream of Trees

by Mary Oliver

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world's artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.
Who ever made music of a mild day? 

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