Mysteries in November

Yesterday’s post mentioned that it had been a long time since we’d seen a cardinal at the feeder. Today a cardinal arrived and perched on the deck railing and then flew away without visiting the feeder. That increases our suspicions that local cardinals don’t really care for our squirrel-proof feeder with the “cardinal ring” on the base. We’ll fill and rehang a feeder with a tray base and  see if that helps. It was popular with cardinals once upon a time [see photo below].

male cardinal at tray-base feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

Today’s breeze is approaching wind velocity. We’re going to defer mulching the backyard leaves until the air is calmer. Unless I’m trying to duck hunt, winds approaching 20 mph are unpleasant to be out and about in. Meanwhile, I’m fascinated at the way most of the oak trees along the north side of our property  are still hanging onto their leaves. One of the better explanations we’ve come across for this phenomenon  can be found on the International Oak Society’s web site description of marcescence and abscission.

some oak leaves holding on in January

Photo by J. Harrington

Sourdough laced with kernza flour is rising in a bowl. We’ll probably not get to baking until Sunday morning. Tomorrow morning we’ll shape it and put ot in the refrigerator to chill whille we head off to a workshop on green burials. Slowly, but inevitably, nature, including human nature, is settling into winter patterns.

[UPDATE: we just remembered it was nine years ago today that we first posted at My Minnesota. We’ve made it a daily habit since then.]

Gathering Leaves

By Robert Frost

Spades take up leaves

No better than spoons,

And bags full of leaves

Are light as balloons.

 

I make a great noise

Of rustling all day

Like rabbit and deer

Running away.

 

But the mountains I raise

Elude my embrace,

Flowing over my arms

And into my face.

 

I may load and unload

Again and again

Till I fill the whole shed,

And what have I then?

 

Next to nothing for weight,

And since they grew duller

From contact with earth,

Next to nothing for color.

 

Next to nothing for use,

But a crop is a crop,

And who’s to say where

The harvest shall stop?

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