Say “good-bye” to April, fools!

The roadsides have developed a rash of blue flowers that I can’t identify. I didn’t even manage to take a picture because I noticed them while walking the dogs. A leash in each hand isn’t conducive to good photos. I’ll do some checking in field guides later today but I don’t need to know a name to enjoy the beauty of a flower.

The Red Wheelbarrow, WiIliam Carlos Williams

Photo by J. Harrington

It’s been amost a decade since I drove by the barn outside Osceola, WI where the picture above was taken. It seems like a good way to close out the month of April and National Poetry month.

Back home, the year round effort to keep this place minimally decluttered was (re)engaged today. Christmas greens made it into the burn pit and the trailer we use to haul the tractor had the air pressure in its tires checked. The coupler needs some lubrication, and the hitch ball needs polishing. It’s covered in rust and may even need to be replaced. Back in the days when I was a practicing planner, from time to time I was known to observe that the problem with building infrastructure is that, once built it needs maintenance and politicians never held ribbon cutting ceremonies for resurfacing etc. At a personal level, I note that the more stuff we have, the more stuff we have to take care of. That’s not a complaint as much as it is an observation.

Tomorrow, April's showers turn into May flowers. National Poetry month will end for another year but we can, and should, make every day a poetry day. If you’ve not read the works of Heidi Barr, a local poet, I suggest you check them out. The last time I looked, a few weeks ago, Prairie Restorations in Scandia had copies on their bookshelves. She’s the source of today’s poem and if you follow the poem’s title link, you can check out two more.

RAINY DAYS IN SPRING

Rainy days in spring

are for walking quietly

through gently falling water

are for well-thumbed books

read in early afternoon

are for tea steeping

while drops drum the roof

are for land and sky

working together

through mess and necessity

to keep the world turning

ice and mud eventually coming

to an agreement that’s green

with potential for growing

with potential for blooming

with potential for feeding

weary souls wandering

on rainy days in spring.

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The reign of rain

Things the Better Half has heard me say in the past few days:

• We need the moisture to recover from the drought
• At least it’s not snow
• It’ll cut down on the wild grass fire danger
•  I hope this keeps up (then it won’t come down)

I can almost see the leaves growing as I look out the windows. The freshly opened buds glow with vibrant color. Come summer, green tree crowns will be old hat, but for now a transition from bare branches is new and refreshing. Our neighborhood is starting to look like this.

Spring leaf out and green up

Photo by J. Harrington

The wet spot in our back yard shows more water than is has for months (and months). Once the ground dries out a little, I’ll start to do a little tidying outside and hope for gentle breezes rather than howling ones. In the quarter century plus that we’ve lived here, the wind has been out of the east about a dozen times, four or five of them during the past couple of weeks. After a very unusual winter, spring has added a few surprises too.

Meanwhile, today’s sourdough boule has come out of the oven looking good. We’ll taste it shortly after this is posted since it should be cooled enough by then. For years I’ve been trying to create a much more open crumb in my bread. Last week I bought a loaf from a local bakery. The crumb was so open the when I toast a slice, the butter drips through the holes. I’m reconsidering my wishes about a more open crumb. It’s a classic challenge of “be careful what you wish for, you may get it.”

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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Déjà vu for you, too?

Our Spring season is repeating many of its typical patterns. The first rose-breasted grosbeak of the season arrived at the feeder today. Based on the photo records from prior years, he’s ten days to two weeks early. Leaf-out is progressing nicely. Despite a lack of sunshine, the countryside is greening and the first ruby-throated hummingbird has been sighted in the Rochester, MN area. Damp, cooler weather (all too typical for the North Country spring) is motivating me to mix another batch of sourdough, targeted for the oven tomorrow.

male rose-breasted grosbeak

Photo by J. Harrington

Some of us who lived through the 1960’s and ’70’s are developing a growing sense of déjà vu as we read about the campus demonstrations, the establishment’s responses, and the similarities in progressives’ reaction to Lyndon B. Johnson over Vietnam and Joe Biden over Israel. (We needn’t go into any parallels between Nixon and tRUMP.) There’s even a recent piece in The Guardian with the head: ‘Do not bow’: ex-Black Panther praises pro-Palestinian student protesters from prison.

Although it is highly unlikely to (re)solve many, if any, of our contemporary battles, it might help some of us to minimize escalation of confrontations if we learn or remember Fritz Perls' Gestalt Prayer, which serves as today’s “poem.”

    I do my thing and you do your thing.

    I am not in this world to live up to your expectations,

    and you are not in this world to live up to mine.

    You are you, and I am I,

    and if by chance we find each other, it's beautiful.

    If not, it can't be helped.

    — Fritz Perls, Gestalt Therapy Verbatim, 1969

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Saturday mornin’ comin’ down*

Have you visited your local independent bookstore today? We have, to help celebrate Independent Bookstore Day. The Better Half picked up a book. I’m still hacking away at my tsunduko stack(s). That visit was part of a loop that also included a stop at our local feed store where we purchased more coarse sunflower seeds for the birds and another jug of honey for my morning coffee. Finally, we swung by the farm and picked up this year’s first community supported agriculture [CSA] share. It includes:

• GREEN INCISED LETTUCE,
• RED KITTEN SPINACH,
• SUNFLOWER MICROGREENS,
• WATERCRESS, and
• BRIGHT LIGHTS CHARD

Today is special for at least a couple of other reasons. SiSi, the twelve year old yellow lab cross who rescued us, came to live with us in her forever home eleven years ago this week, when she looked like this. We’ve enjoyed each other’s company since then and are looking forward to more years together. SiSi and the Better Half’s rescue beagle, Harry, are an interesting, although sometimes noisy, combination.

SiSi our yellow lab cross at 1 year old

Photo by J. Harrington

Today is also the first time this year we’ve seen marsh marigolds in bloom. They’re growing and blooming in a ditch along a township road near the CSA pick up barn.

*with apologies to Kris Kristofferson

How It Begins

A puppy is a puppy is a puppy.
He’s probably in a basket with a bunch
of other puppies.
Then he’s a little older and he’s nothing
but a bundle of longing.
He doesn’t even understand it.

Then someone picks him up and says,
“I want this one.”

-Mary Oliver, in “Dog Songs”

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Is a president qualified for immunity?

The media coverage I’ve seen so far has focused on the questions raised by SCOTUS members and claims made by opposing sides in the question of presidential immunity. I am not a lawyer (a fact for which these days I am quite thankful) and much of my reading about governmental immunity has centered around assertions of police immunity. This morning I discovered there’s a briefing paper by the Minnesota Attorney General’s Office: AN OVERVIEW OF GOVERNMENTAL IMMUNITIES, A Tutorial and Update. I offer the link here in hope that someone actually briefed SCOTUS on the size of the can of worms they’re opening and, if not, that the linked report will somehow end up in the in baskets or boxes of the SCOTUS members. It looks to be a much larger mess than it appears at first. This is probably one of the few times I would suggest that the classic Republican, conservative (MAGAt) solution to “Just Say NO!” may be the best response.

votes include more than just the candidate

Photo by J. Harrington

Democracy

By Dorianne Laux

When you’re cold—November, the streets icy and everyone you pass

homeless, Goodwill coats and Hefty bags torn up to make ponchos—

someone is always at the pay phone, hunched over the receiver

spewing winter’s germs, swollen lipped, face chapped, making the last

tired connection of the day. You keep walking to keep the cold

at bay, too cold to wait for the bus, too depressing the thought

of entering that blue light, the chilled eyes watching you decide

which seat to take: the man with one leg, his crutches bumping

the smudged window glass, the woman with her purse clutched

to her breasts like a dead child, the boy, pimpled, morose, his head

shorn, a swastika carved into the stubble, staring you down.

So you walk into the cold you know: the wind, indifferent blade,

familiar, the gold leaves heaped along the gutters. You have

a home, a house with gas heat, a toilet that flushes. You have

a credit card, cash. You could take a taxi if one would show up.

You can feel it now: why people become Republicans: Get that dog

off the street. Remove that spit and graffiti. Arrest those people huddled

on the steps of the church. If it weren’t for them you could believe in god,

in freedom, the bus would appear and open its doors, the driver dressed

in his tan uniform, pants legs creased, dapper hat: Hello Miss, watch

your step now. But you’re not a Republican. You’re only tired, hungry,

you want out of the cold. So you give up, walk back, step into line behind

the grubby vet who hides a bag of wine under his pea coat, holds out

his grimy 85 cents, takes each step slow as he pleases, releases his coins

into the box and waits as they chink down the chute, stakes out a seat

in the back and eases his body into the stained vinyl to dream

as the chips of shrapnel in his knee warm up and his good leg

flops into the aisle. And you’ll doze off, too, in a while, next to the girl

who can’t sit still, who listens to her Walkman and taps her boots

to a rhythm you can’t hear, but you can see it—when she bops

her head and her hands do a jive in the air—you can feel it

as the bus rolls on, stopping at each red light in a long wheeze,

jerking and idling, rumbling up and lurching off again.

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Spring’s stutter steps

A pair of hanging baskets with pansies, or something like, have been added to the front stoop. Their hanging height, and the ease with which they can be brought into the house, should protect them from any frosty nights. The planting pots won’t get plants until sometime next month. Plus, this afternoon we actually started the lawn mower. We didn’t mow anything (yet) but it’s reassuring that it works. Maybe we’ll use it to capture the leaves in the dog run. The dogs are reaching a point where they need some time outside, off lead, to blow off some steam. One or both of the owners could use something similar I suspect.

bergamot seed trays in sunshine

Photo by J. Harrington

The bergamot seed trays got to spend a couple of hours in the sunshine today, before the wind got strong enough that I brought them in before they got blown over. Some cells have germinated well. Others show no signs of life. I may have made a mess of planting (too deep) or the planting medium just hasn’t been warm enough for long enough. Time will tell and the experience is helping me learn to forego expectations and live in the present. Better late than never, right?

We’re approaching peak woodland wildflower season over the next eight to ten weeks. I hope the weather gets more cooperative. But seasons change in stutter steps and temperatures rise and fall; precipitation comes and goes. As Lao Tzu is report to have observed: 'Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.’ That’s a lesson we all could stand to relearn each year at this time.

The peace of wild things

by Wendell Berry

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the Night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the Peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

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A corner turned

The fuel line shutoff has been turned off on the snow blower. The lawn mower’s electric start batteryis charging. I may even wash the Jeep one of these days. Although the record shows there’s only one month of the year in which we haven’t had snow in Minnesota, we’re declaring winter of 2023-24 over. The best times of the year (according to me) are ahead of us.

green is busting out all over

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning, as a band of rose began to brighten the eastern sky, we noticed three or four whitetails gnoshing their way through the narrow band of woods between the front of the house and the road. Today was the first time we’ve seen deer in that location. Yesterday afternoon a displaying tom turkey and his harem of hens were parading around the hill behind the house. It’s truly encouraging to see the country come alive. On my way home from an errand this morning I saw a fair-sized flock of what I think were teal zipping over the Sunrise River pools near HWY 36. The water there is up and flooding most of the surrounding marshes. If we get a bunch of rain (is “bunch" the correct technical term?) there may be some issues about where the water all goes before it flows to the St. Croix.

Leaf-out is becoming more prominent by the day. Dandelions are popping into bloom overnight. With the rain expected Friday through Monday, I won’t be surprised if we can actually hear trees, bushes and plants growing, sounding like a susurrating bowl of rice crispies. Spring can be an awesome time in the North Country.

At the Spring Dawn

Angelina Weld Grimké
1880 – 1958

I watched the dawn come,
    Watched the spring dawn come.
And the red sun shouldered his way up
    Through the grey, through the blue,
Through the lilac mists.
The quiet of it! The goodness of it!
    And one bird awoke, sang, whirred
A blur of moving black against the sun,
    Sang again—afar off.
And I stretched my arms to the redness of the sun,
    Stretched to my finger tips,
        And I laughed.
Ah! It is good to be alive, good to love,
    At the dawn,
        At the spring dawn.

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A full moon of Spring

Night before last, an almost full moon, surrounded by a glowing halo, played peek-a-boo behind a thin layer of clouds. Last night [this morning], it shone in a clear sky. Tonight it will be full. Cloud cover remains to be seen, or not. Our copy of the Minnesota Weather Guide Calenday notes that the Ojibwe call this full moon Maple Sap Boiling Moon and to the Dakota, it’s Fattening Moon. (Other sources list the Fattening Moon in June.) Regardless of the name, moonrise tonight occurs a little after 8 pm and moonset about 6 am tomorrow.

two sandhill cranes in our back yard

Photo by J. Harrington

As days lengthen and temperatures warm, migrations from southern locales continue and locals become more active. Yesterday evening on the way to and from a visit with the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, and Granddaughter, the Better Half and I saw swans, geese, pheasants, deer, turkeys, multiple species of song birds, and sandhill cranes. The trip reminded me of Aldo Leopold’s wonderful observation:

“There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot. These essays are the delights and dilemmas of one who cannot.” - A Sand County Almanac foreword

Another sign of warmer days arriving is the increasing number of locations where road work of one kind or another is getting underway. Those who claim there are only two seasons in Minnesota, winter and road work, aren’t entirely joking. I wish work crews would put signs face down when not relevant, instead of just moving them to the shoulder.

Uncharacteristically, I’m going to take in stride the fact that my plans for the week have been disrupted by wet weather and slow to germinate bergamot seeds (which are showing increasing signs of life, thank you for asking). If I can’t play outside, I’ll read inside about the outside, and bake bread. Tomorrow’s project: a whole wheat sourdough rustic boule, The dough is currently undergoing bulk fermentation in preparation for oven time tomorrow.

My Debt

Jane Hirshfield
1953 – 

Like all
who believe in the senses,
I was an accountant,
copyist,
statistician.

Not registrar,
witness.

Permitted to touch
the leaf of a thistle,
the trembling
work of a spider.

To ponder the Hubble’s recordings.

It did not matter
if I believed in
the party of particle or of wave,
as I carried no weapon.

It did not matter if I believed.

I weighed ashes,
actions, 
cities that glittered like rubies,
on the scales I was given,
calibrated
in units of fear and amazement.

I wrote the word it, the word is.

I entered the debt that is owed to the real.

Forgive,
spine-covered leaf, soft-bodied spider,
octopus lifting
one curious tentacle back toward the hand of the diver
that in such black ink
I set down your flammable colors.

—2018

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Happy Earth Day!

 Let’s make every day Earth Day, shall we?

“Blue Marble,” our only home
NASA Photo ID AS17-148-22727

Earth Day

By Jane Yolen

I am the Earth

And the Earth is me.

Each blade of grass,

Each honey tree,

Each bit of mud,

And stick and stone

Is blood and muscle,

Skin and bone.

And just as I

Need every bit

Of me to make

My body fit,

So Earth needs

Grass and stone and tree

And things that grow here

Naturally.

That’s why we

Celebrate this day.

That’s why across

The world we say:

As long as life,

As dear, as free,

I am the Earth

And the Earth is me. 

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On the eve of Earth Day

Leaves are emerging on some bushes and tree tops, really noticeable on aspens. It’s near time to watch for wild plums to bloom. A few hours ago I began reading a digitized version of a book I’ve been attracted to for some time now, Traditional Ecological Knowledge. I was pleased to note references to Leopold’s land ethic and works by other authors with whom I’m familiar mentioned in the introduction. The three sisters garden I wanted to plant last year never happened so, with luck, maybe this year will see seeds planted. The Better Half gave me a couple of packets of glass gem corn seeds at Christmas, so I’ve even more motivation this year. Where to plant is a major question and last year the persistent drought was a disincentive to starting.

it’s leaf out time

Photo by J. Harrington

Blogger’s software seems much better behaved today, although we can’t be sure until this is actually posted. I’m now facing a question of whether I want to and can download/backup more than a decade’s worth of daily postings. I know, it would have been better if I’d done backups all along, but who knew I’d keep at this?

Last week a purple or house finch, or one of each, showed up at the feeder. Dark-eyed juncoes were pecking away at the back yard until a day or so ago. Warmer, wetter, weather in the week upcoming should bring more indicators of spring. One we’re reasonably certain of is the first community supported agriculture share should be available Friday or Saturday. That’s up-lifting, as is the increasing number of bergamot seeds that are germinating. Isn’t it wonderful what some sunshine and water can help make happen?

Until Earth Day...

Gidiskinaadaa Mitigwaakiing/Woodland Liberty

Margaret Noodin

Apii dibikong gaashkendamyaan miinawaa goshkoziyaan
When in the night I am weary and awake wondering
endigwenh waa ezhichigewag bagoji Anishinaabensag odenang,
what the wild young Anishinaabeg of the cities will do,
mitigwaakiing izhaayaan miinawaa anweshinyaan.
into the woods I go and rest.
Nimawadishaag zhingwaakwag miinawaa okikaandagoog
I visit with the white pines and the jack pines.
Nibizindaawaag zhashagiwag miinawaa ajiijaakwag.
I listen to the herons and the cranes.
Nimaatookinaag zaagaa’igan ogaawag miinawaa apakweshkwayag.
I share the lake waters with the walleye and the cattails.
Niwaabaandaanan wesiinhyag-miikanan miinawaa nakwejinaanig
I marvel at the complexity of wild paths and webs woven.
Miidash apii bidaaban niswi giosewag miinawaa
Then when the dawn hides the three hunters
niizhwaaswi nimisenhyag dibiki-giizhigong gaazhad
and seven sisters of the night sky
baabimoseyaan nikeye naawakweg zoongide’eyaan.
I walk bravely toward the noonday.
 

This poem was written in response to "The Peace of Wild Things" by Wendell Berry.

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It’s the stupid system, stupid!!!

I’ve been fussing and fuming for the past few hours because I couldn’t get at the part of the Blogger software that lets me create this page. The pages already published were still there, but only visible through a browser. And now, with neither rhyme nor reason, I'm back. This strikes me as one more example of technology becoming more and more embedded in our lives, while growing less secure and/or reliable. But then many of the non-digital services in our lives are becoming less secure and/or reliable. Health systems, especially those for rural and/or females are one example. Police systems are another. Education and media, particularly ads and headlines/leads, appear to be doing a good job of dumbing down the general population. I mean, who needs fact checkers or copy editors these days? We no longer seem focused on whether something is right, only if it’s legal. [The Blogger software disappeared again for hours before I could get this posted.]

where is the bluebird of happiness these days?

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you seen the report(s) that hackers, purportedly from or in China, have infiltrated the software that runs our basic infrastructure systems? Unless you’re a practicing Luddite, you no doubt have been exposed to mis- and disinformation via the internet and/or email etc. Have you received advisories, particularly from a health care provider’s system, that your personal information may have been captured by hackers and your identity may be at risk? Before we get around to more screwing up with artificial intelligence, let’s apply some human intelligence to securing our information and communication systems.

In fact, it seems to me it’s way past time to forego the basic premise of perpetual growth on a finite planet and creating ever richer trillionaires while regular folks starve and live on or in the streets. It’s clear that many more folks need to be reminded of guidance provided by one of our founding fathers:

“The government you elect is the government you deserve.”  ― Thomas Jefferson

Now, in anticipation of Monday’s celebration of Earth Day, here’s today’s poem. If there’s no posting tomorrow, it’s likely due to another Blogger software technical failure. But it is worth every penny I pay for it.

An Earth Song 

Langston Hughes
1901 – 1967

It's an earth song,—
And I've been waiting long for an earth song. 
It's a spring song,—
And I've been waiting long for a spring song. 
    Strong as the shoots of a new plant 
    Strong as the bursting of new buds
    Strong as the coming of the first child from its mother's womb. 
It's an earth song, 
A body song, 
A spring song, 
I have been waiting long for this spring song. 

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Best management practices? US?

The sky has been spitting graupel off and on all day. The windchill is around 27℉. We just spent about an hour wandering around the property with a nice woman from the county Soil and Water Conservation District. We’re exploring the feasibility of turning an acre or so of Anoka sand plain into a patch for pollinators, especially monarch butterflies. We’ll post reports here from time to time as the project moves ahead (or doesn't).

fields to be improved for pollinators

Photo by J. Harrington

Temperatures dropped below freezing last night and are forecast to repeat that tonight and tomorrow. I’m amazed that any wildflowers manage to survive around here. The reality seems to be that nature is, in many instances, profligate with procreation to compensate for high mortality rates. The cold temps and graupel is no doubt coming as a shock to the forsythia. All three bushes have flowers on them. Sigh! Then, again, thousands of years ago our property was probably something like a mile under a glacier and there were no plants at all. Human time frames don’t align well with geologic periods.

Yesterday the dogs and I noticed a fresh dandelion flower along the road. This is the second time this year yellow blooms have appeared. The first time was ended when winter weather visited us for a week or two at the beginning of astrological spring, after our milld and largely snow-free winter.

As climate disruption and environmental pollution and species extinctions and ecosystem destruction continues, it might be wise to reconsider how we think we’re “managing the environment” and practicing restoration and responding to invasive species with herbicides and pesticides. There are few invasive species on a scorched earth but neither are there many indigenous inhabitants. What do you know about permaculture?

Franklin's Bees

By James McCorkle

Not seen for a decade, diver of lupine, horsemint, vetch in the high meadows

    of the coast

and Sierra-Cascade ranges, 190 miles south to north, from Mount Shasta to

    Roseburg, OR,

rarest of bumble bees, with the flamboyants—Wandering Skipper, Gabb’s

    Checkerspot,

Sonoran Blue, Santa Monica Mountains Hairstreak, California Dogface

(my father caught them, collected into cellophane envelopes each pair of

    wings hinged to dry

bodies, from the Sierras, the meadows above Tahoe his mother painted, the

    lake

a jag of sea-green blue through maize and ochers in her landscapes, after

    she stopped

playing the violin and tired of her sister’s theosophy; for years all I had of

    his was a cigar box

of light, all this to keep from sliding into darkness, each thing saved part of

    a constellation,

one chip of  light necessitating the next one’s proximity, forming an outline

someone will trace again and again, into wing or antennae, or hive, or a

    storm of bees

from a hollow, from the retreat of another form back into darkness,

    through a vent,

underground, and my father, gone for longer than my daughters’ lives,

    floats somewhere, talking

to me, whispering my wrongs, my failures, each syllable a bit of dust from

    wings),

the disappearing Frosted Elfin and Karner Blue, Mitchell’s Satyr, Taylor’s

    Checkerspot.

Who was Gabb or Taylor or Karner, to have their names attached to a streak

    of blue,

brushed flakes of cerulean, or orange, or drab brown; or Franklin, who

    noticed

the solid black abdomen or the gold U on the anterior of the thorax,

cohabitant on this range with the Western bumble bee, itself rare, and what

    we know

pinned to balsa wood, through abdomens, a bee or wasp,

a solitary zebra-stripe, above milkweed, vetch, or top-heavy goldenrod

netted and gassed, how quickly the last ones are with us

then not, a specimen tray in a cabinet pulled out, rows of  bodies, wings

    flared mineral

light, chitin brittle as pressed leaves. Pollinators, foragers. Signals of 


    summer’s height, the race

of wildflowers blooming before the dry grass fires. In a season, to spawn,

    wrap in self-made

husks, then unfold, moist, and float up toward the sun or nest and lay the

    colony

over the summer, queen and workers, caretakers of the burrow, foragers,

    and autumnal queens

to wait through winter laden with the future, laid on a mound of nectar, in a

    cup of wax.

This year the cherry-tree had no fruit—or if there was, it was high in the

    tree, out of sight—

no bees meticulous in their work, the tree was silent all spring and summer.

(Perhaps my father sought to find a Lepidoptera not yet named, in New

    Guinea or Borneo, something

mistaken for sky leaded between the tree canopy, but found none unknown—

or this would be my story, since he told nothing of time, his time in the war,

    working

the wounds, the tropic diseases, like most who returned, slowly from their

    theaters of conflict,

in silence, so turned to growing orchids, Phalaenopsis, white moth-orchids,

    dozens on a spray,

he would cross, hoping some new variant would take, our house filled then

    with possibility.)

One monarch drifted over the scattered milkweed plants. A cool spring and

    summer, warm

fall, the absence of dragonflies over the meadows and warm lawns. So I

    think of the entomologist

waiting in the August meadows of Mt. Ashland where he found the last

    Franklin bumble bee

and has come back each year to look again, his specimen box holds three,

    pinned, in the light

their thorax bristles golden as though always stained by pollen shaken loose

    by their thrum in C,

sorting across scents and chromatics, compounding the nectars, mortal

    pollens.

Does one know one is the last, no one answers, or there are no others on the

    path

across the wildflower meadows of Mt. Ashland, or no path, the last ones

    along it have been gone

for a season or two, the last one a leftover cell deep in a vole’s lair, or a

    half-buried fox, sun-

warmed from sleep’s knots. If gone, who would miss them—someone,

    searching for one

like a word hovering just beyond the tongue, its meaning he shapes with his

    hands, something

infirm, shapeless, “you know what I mean,” just to keep the conversation

    going or return it

to where we were, start again, a memory, you are still pitch-perfect, a 


    middle-C to tune

the rest by, or is it an A, the oboist’s, then picked up others, that dis-

ease you refuse to talk about, it can’t be you, to be the last one to remember

    this and then

no one afterward to call it back, say its name as you gently cup the stunned bee

to show the golden U, in moments it is released, groggy, knowing it must

    find its way, picking

its alphabet back from vetch, lupine, horsemint, to bone-hollowed-hive.

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Return with us now...

Today is day fourteen of the 10 to 14 day germination period listed for the bergamot seeds we planted in two seed trays. There are minuscule signs of life in about 20% of the tray cells. We have our fingers crossed that more seeds will germinate over time since the trays have only had one day of warm sunshine for a couple of hours. Weather forecasts are threatening frost this weekend so... no planting yet. In fact, we’re not even ready to park the trays outside daily so seedlings can harden off. The wind has been gusting enough to blow over the trays. Plus, the “safety date” for frost is Memorial Day weekend. Welcome to spring in the North Country.

wild bergamot in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

A pocket gopher has been creating mounds in the real back yard, not just out in the fields behind the house. We’ll see about setting some traps tomorrow or later, after the Soil and Water Conservation person has visited. We’re exploring the possibility of getting some funding to help turn our fields into wild prairie, helping create habitat for local pollinators. Maybe some of our bergamot seedlings will become a step in our prairie restoration?

The day lilies are coming along nicely. Maple buds have burst and their “shells” now cover the ground. The Better Half recently dug out some CDs from our [much] younger days, including early Judy Collins, Ani DiFranco + Utah Phillips, and Janis Joplin. I’m taking that music plus my rapidly growing frustration with today’s “culture” as a cue that it’s time to revert, not to a second childhood (there are some who would claim I never left my first) but to a second Hippie-hood. It feels like a wonderful way to spend the rest of the year, and maybe the rest of my life. At least I could make more sense of people’s actions and inactions way back when. Now, not so much. (If you’re not old enough to remember the Lone Ranger, the rest of the title goes “to those thrilling days of yesteryear.......”)

Back Up Quick They’re Hippies

By Lani O'Hanlon

That was the year we drove

into the commune in Cornwall.

“Jesus Jim,” mam said,

“back up quick they’re hippies.”

Through the car window,

tents, row after row, flaps open,

long-haired men and women

curled around each other like babies

and the babies themselves

wandered naked across the grass.

I reached for the handle, ready, almost,

to open the door, drop out and away

from my sister’s aggressive thighs,

Daddy’s slapping hands.

Back home in the Dandelion Market

I unlearnt the steps my mother taught,

bought a headband, an afghan coat,

a fringed skirt — leather skin.

Barefoot on common grass I lay down with kin.

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What is Israel’s Quality of Mercy?

I wonder if those in Israel’s war cabinet, and especially Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, are familiar with and remember Shakespeare’s works, particularly Act IV, Scene 1 of the Merchant of Venice, which includes the folllowing famous poem:

Portia. The quality of mercy is not strain'd,             2125
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; 
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes: 
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes 
The throned monarch better than his crown;             2130
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
The attribute to awe and majesty, 
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; 
But mercy is above this sceptred sway; 
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,                         2135
It is an attribute to God himself; 
And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this, 
That, in the course of justice, none of us                 2140
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; 
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much 
To mitigate the justice of thy plea; 
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice     2145
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

Perhaps someone could bring the play, and especially all of IV. 1, to his attention, before his entire country suffers a fate comparable to Shylock's.

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A world awash in greenwash

From today’s issue of The Guardian:

Republican senator Tom Cotton calls for vigilantism to break up Gaza protests

One can but presume the same approach would apply to MAGA protests surrounding the 2024 election. Does anyone know if liberals have started organizing people’s posses yet? Can you tell my mood today?

Blue Marble
Image Credit: NASA/NOAA/GSFC/Suomi NPP/VIIRS/Norman Kuring

I’m fed up with the malicious stupidity practiced by the human animal. Also from recent issues of The Guardian:

• Dead satellites are filling space with trash. That could affect Earth’s magnetic field
• In an unprecedented deal, a private company purchased land in a tiny Arizona town – and sold its water rights to a suburb 200 miles away. Local residents fear the agreement has ‘opened Pandora’s box’
• ‘Grownup’ leaders are pushing us towards catastrophe, says former US climate chief
• World faces ‘deathly silence’ of nature as wildlife disappears, warn experts

These articles can and should be stacked up against a definition of sustainability provided by Donella Meadows in February, 1995:

Humankind has the ability to achieve sustainable development — to meet the needs of the present without compromising the ability of future generations to meet their own needs. 

In my own mind I supplement that official definition of sustainability with Herman Daly’s clear and undeniable explication of what it means in physical terms:

1. Renewable resources shall not be used faster than they can regenerate.

2. Pollution and wastes shall not be put into the environment faster than the environment can recycle them or render them harmless.

3. Nonrenewable resources shall not be used faster than renewable substitutes (used sustainably) can be develo ped.

By those conditions there’s not a nation, a company, a city, a farm, or a household on earth that is sustainable. Virtually every major fishery in the world violates condition 1. The world economy as a whole is violating condition 2 by putting out carbon dioxide 60-80% faster than the atmosphere can recycle it. But to make things worse, I would add two more sustainability conditions that I think are obvious.

4. The human population and the physical capital plant have to be kept at levels low enough to allow the first 3 conditions to be met.

5. The previous 4 conditions have to be met through processes that are democratic and equitable enough that people will stand for them.

Sustainability means all that to me and more, it means a complete vision of the world I want to work for and live in. It contains components of spirituality, of community, of decentralization, of a complete rethinking of the ways we use our time, define our jobs, and bestow power upon governments and corporations.

When was the last time you saw a news story addressing any of the five points? How about the “all that and more....?” Instead, we seem determined to keep rearranging the deck chairs as our only ship, spaceship Earth, continues to sink. Have I made it clear why my mood is what it is? One day very soon we’ll touch on what kinds of visions may help patch the leaks.

Earth Day

By Jane Yolen

I am the Earth

And the Earth is me.

Each blade of grass,

Each honey tree,

Each bit of mud,

And stick and stone

Is blood and muscle,

Skin and bone.

And just as I

Need every bit

Of me to make

My body fit,

So Earth needs

Grass and stone and tree

And things that grow here

Naturally.

That’s why we

Celebrate this day.

That’s why across

The world we say:

As long as life,

As dear, as free,

I am the Earth

And the Earth is me. 

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Spring’s ap-pear-ance varies

A dozen years ago, the back yard pear tree was in bloom on Tax Day. Not this year. Plus, last year the blossoms were more abundant than the pollinators, so there were very few pears come autumn. From a handful of pictures I’ve taken over the years, the pear tree has been in bloom in May more than April. Another example of Minnesota’s erratic spring phenology?

pear tree in bloom on Tax Day

Photo by J. Harrington

According to the National Phenology Network, spring this year is barely ahead of typical in our region, despite a much milder and less snowy winter than has been typical. That probably means next month is when the majority of wildflowers will be blooming and colorful song birds arriving. Tomorrow’s rain should help green things up in anticipation. On a selfish note, a delayed warmup will provide more opportunities to bake sourdough loaves before it gets too warm to heat up the kitchen. Today’s loaf turned out pretty well.

I’ve noticed that the more I watch for what’s happening, rather than focus on one or two events and wait in anxious anticipation, the more I manage to enjoy the transition of the seasons. That’s kind of how I’ve approached autumn for years, but I tend toward antsy in spring since I really want winter to be gone. Becoming a bread baker hasn’t done much to diminish my aversion to cold and snow.

Since we’re in the midst of National Poetry Month, let me suggest, for your reading pleasure in these taxing times, a volume the Better Half suggested to me the last time we were at a book store, The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace and Renewal. I’m about halfway through and find that reading a handful of its poems in the morning helps ground me for a good part of the day. It also offers a heartening alternative to the daily headlines.

A Blessing

James Wright
1927 – 1980

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

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A day full of promise

Yesterday we enjoyed our annual Spring sighting of a barred owl perched in (on?) a tree on the north side of the house. It’s mildly reassuring to experience some repeating patterns these days. On the other hand, yesterday afternoon a gray squirrel appeared to be trying to chase all the birds out of the yard so s/he would be the only one to munch on all the droppings from the bird feeder. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything quite like that before.

Male goldfinches are showing their chrome yellow mating colors although mating season won’t be for several months. I suppose that’s what happens if molt occurs but once a year. I wish our dog, SiSi, would only shed once a year. It’s beyond my comprehension why she isn’t bald, what with all the blond hairs all around the house, no matter how often we vacuum. It’s worse in Spring but never seems to stop.

bergamot seed trays in the sun

Photo by J. Harrington

Today is the tenth day after planting the bergamot seeds. The germination period is reported to be ten to fourteen days. My anticipation levels are climbing although the temperature where the planting trays are kept is at the lower end of a preferred range, so we’ll have to just wait and see. I may consider putting a heating pad under one of the trays come midweek if nothing is rising through the planting medium but have doubts that it would do much because of the drainage space between the tray and the underliner. Plus, I know that water and electricity don’t mix very well and I’m occasionally sloppy when I water the trays.

I’m not sure why the flocks of dark-eyed juncos are still hanging around the back yard instead of heading north. My fingers are crossed that they’re just being dilatory and not that they know something we don’t about winter hanging on.

An April Day

Joseph Seamon Cotter Jr. 
1895 – 1919

On such a day as this I think,
      On such as day as this,
When earth and sky and nature’s whole
      Are clad in April’s bliss;
And balmy zephyrs gently waft
      Upon your cheek a kiss;
Sufficient is it just to live
      On such a day as this.

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Planting, the see'ds of science

Three years ago to the day, on April 13, 2021, the backyard forsythia was in bloom. There are even more flowers on it today than there were three years ago but we don’t have pictures yet this year. Here’s evidence of microclimate, because the forsythia in front of the house hasn’t yet begun to flower. It spends less time in the sun than the backyard bush does.

a forsythia’s early blooms

Photo by J. Harrington

Several days ago I found myself pondering whether the oxygen content of the atmosphere varied by season, since during winter in the Northern Hemisphere, deciduous trees don’t have active leaves engaged in photosynthesis, inhaling carbon dioxide and exhaling oxygen. Turns out the content does vary by season and someone even made an animation of it. I’m almost ready to start accepting the poetry of science, although that wouldn’t exist if science didn’t study nature.

Singularity

Marie Howe

^{(after Stephen Hawking)}

Do you sometimes want to wake up to the singularity
we once were?

so compact nobody
needed a bed, or food or money—

nobody hiding in the school bathroom
or home alone

pulling open the drawer
where the pills are kept.

For every atom belonging to me as good
Belongs to you.   Remember?
There was no   Nature.    No
 them.   No tests
to determine if the elephant
grieves her calf    or if

the coral reef feels pain.    Trashed
oceans don’t speak English or Farsi or French;

would that we could wake up   to what we were
—when we were ocean    and before that
to when sky was earth, and animal was energy, and rock was
liquid and stars were space and space was not

at all—nothing

before we came to believe humans were so important
before this awful loneliness.

Can molecules recall it?
what once was?    before anything happened?

No I, no We, no one. No was
No verb      no noun
only a tiny tiny dot brimming with

is is is is is

All   everything   home

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